The Arrangement
by sienna27
Summary: Universe F: Story 2 of 2. Prompt: "How Do You Say 'Blow Job' in Pennsylvania Dutch?" Hotch and Emily continue the sexual arrangement they came to at the end of Aaron & Emily. Starts off smut/friendship, will move to romance with some dashes of angst along the way.
1. Teddies, Baby Dolls, & Blow Jobs, Oh My!

**Author's Note:** Sequel to Aaron & Emily. I swore to myself I wouldn't start it, and then Emily insisted on telling me what happened when they got home. So I had to write it down, and then I said screw it, just put it up. So here we are! :)

I really don't want to keep ignoring my other stories though. Especially the ones much closer to wrapping up than this one, that's barely started. So, though I have actually now written the first TWO chapters here, please just consider this a 'taste' of where things will be going. I'm not planning on making it my one big focus right now, unless my brain goes spastic and insists I stay here a bit longer.

_**WARNING: **_

_**M for Sex, of the smut'ish variety**_

If you're getting here from Aaron & Emily, obviously you already know why this is M for sex. That's their arrangement. And fair warning going in, on occasion, we will be rather explicitly following along their activities (like in this chapter). So if takes down the story, you can continue to follow it on my personal site, link which can be found on my profile.

This story picks up about a week after A&E ended. And though I'm using canon for 'inspiration' in that I might make reference to actual canon cases they covered in this timeframe in Girl proper, the 'behind the scenes' events would not be identical to what was written in Girl or shown in canon, because this is not the same world. So basically, just please go with the liberties taken :)

And FYI, the outfits Emily's looking at in the beginning, they're all from Victoria's secret. If interested, (and it is a helpful visual if you know what she's wearing when he shows up) you can see pics of them on my Tumblr post about this story, here, sienna27. tumblr

**TV Bonus Challenge #44, Smuth & Nothing But!**

Show** - **Call Me Fitz

**Title Challenge - **HowDo You Say 'Blow Job' in Pennsylvania Dutch?

* * *

**Teddies, Baby Dolls, & Blow Jobs, Oh My!**

It was just after eight o'clock on Thursday night, and Emily was standing in the middle of her bedroom, completely naked. And with the air conditioning on . . . already a necessity this time of year . . . she was beginning to get a few goosebumps, in places where goosebumps generally only popped up on pole dancers.

But unfortunately she just couldn't decide what to wear.

That's why she was biting her lip as she stared down at the three pieces of lingerie that she'd spread out on top of her pretty cherry blossom print, duvet cover.

First there was the long silk aquamarine nightgown . . . her gaze shifted . . . then the black and white silk teddy, and finally . . . her teeth ground together . . . the pleated white lace baby doll. They were all good choices.

And that was the problem.

After fifteen minutes of digging around in her fancy lingerie drawer, these were the finalists in her search for the perfect outfit for the evening. All were items that she hadn't worn in close to a year. Before this week, she'd had really had anybody special to wear them for. Her eyes crinkled slightly . . . but now she did. She had Hotch.

Her new sex buddy.

A sex buddy that was presently on his way over . . . after having just left the office, three hours after her . . . and so she was really excited (though admittedly also a bit nervous) about his impending arrival. This was their first 'get together' since they'd arrived home from Connecticut the week before.

She was really looking forward to getting some!

That point was not in dispute. But there were a couple of things slightly tempering Emily's enthusiasm for the evening. One of them was that, because this _was_ their first 'official' get together, she had a bit of anxiety about how to dress for the occasion.

She wanted to set the right tone for the rest of their 'dalliances.'

Their first time sleeping together was one thing. They were out of town and it was all impromptu and emotional, and honestly . . . because of all the emotional stuff . . . kind of down and dirty. And down and dirty was good, it had been GREAT for their first time, but you didn't want that _all_ the time.

At least she didn't.

Tonight she wanted things to be special. She wanted to wear something pretty. And, well . . . she reached out to touch the silky nightgown . . . sexy. After all, this thing between them was all about the sex. It was a sex only, no strings relationship. Which admittedly sounded a little, 'low class,' and 'skank whore'ish' on its face.

At least that's what the annoying little lapsed catholic voice in the back of her head kept whispering.

And that was the _other_ thing that was tempering her enthusiasm for the evening . . . her fucked up psyche.

Though Emily knew, in her heart, that there was nothing at all low class or whorish about what she was doing, the little voice was still there. And it was so stupid that it was still there, because for one thing . . . prior to last week . . . she hadn't had sex in like five MONTHS, so it's not like she had a habit of sleeping around with every Tom, Dick and Harry in the Metro DC area.

She was very 'selective' in choosing her sexual partners.

And besides that totally KEY point, the man that she had actually CHOSEN as her newest sex partner, wasn't just some strange 'dude' that she'd met on Craig's List. This was Hotch. And Hotch was somebody that she cared about.

A lot.

And she knew that he cared about her too. And that's why this wasn't just a low class, booty call thing. Like he was going to come over and have a quick 'wham bam, thank you ma'am,' fuck at two am, because he'd struck out finding anybody 'better,' to sleep with.

This wasn't that AT ALL!

This was simply two, single, consenting adults who had chosen to enter into a MONOGAMOUS, sexual 'arrangement,' for their personal . . . mutual . . . satisfaction. There was nothing at all wrong with that.

Not a damn thing.

Which was why it was so irritating that all day . . . as soon as she'd start to get excited thinking about Hotch's arrival tonight . . . she'd also immediately start to get a guilty (dirty) little whisper in the back of her brain. And that little whisper sounded like her old high school CCD teacher, Sister Mary Kathleen. And it _sounded_ like Sister Mary Kathleen . . . that bitter old crank . . . was calling her a little whore.

The fact that that bitter old crank had INDEED once called Emily a little whore . . . while violently slapping her across the face for French kissing Tommy Doherty in the boy's bathroom . . . was not helping.

Of course this 'incident' had happened back in Emily's teen years when she was so INCREDIBLY screwed up. And intellectually she knew that memory was coming back again now, just because of that damn . . . burned into her SOUL . . . Catholic guilt. The guilt was there because of her mother. She had been _very_ religious. Like ardently so. She was an old school Catholic. Mass every Sunday . . . _plus _all the Holy Days . . . and full Stations of the Cross, for the entire Season of Lent.

Emily didn't know ANYBODY else who had spent as much time in church growing up, as she had.

So though she didn't prescribe to any particular religious affiliation as an adult, Emily's entire youth had consisted of years and YEARS of The Church telling her that all sex outside of that for procreation (which this arrangement with Hotch was most definitely NOT) was wrong. And actually those warped sexual mores being driven into her brain, were probably part of the reason that Emily had rebelled the way that she'd had, as a teen.

It was one more "F You," to the woman that she blamed for so many of her problems.

Of course both her (major) issues with her mother, and any real control that the Church's antiquated teachings might have had on her sex life, were all in the past now.

At her age . . . aside from a firm belief that a person's sexual activity was a private matter, aka, she didn't kiss and tell, ever . . . she didn't generally have too many sexual hang ups. And she didn't really consider that latter point to be a 'hang up.'

It was just good manners.

The bottom line though was, as old as she got, she just couldn't quite shake off all of the bad things that had been imprinted from her youth. Nobody could really. But just she didn't need ANY part of her sub-conscious . . . no matter how very 'sub' it was . . . telling her that she was behaving like a low class, whore.

That was not good for her still, at times, shaky self-esteem.

Especially given that she'd had a TERRIBLY low self-image as a teenager, and as a result had spent a regrettable portion of her formative years actually ENGAGING in behavior with more boys than she cared to remember, that resulted in her regularly being called a whore, a slut . . . her stomach turned . . . a tramp, and every other variation therein.

Which was why she did have some (understandable) sensitivity, to the idea that she could slip back into that kind of behavior again.

Back when she had sex not because she wanted to feel good, or share a special moment with a special person, but because she was so sad and desperate for love and affection that she'd do it with anyone . . . literally anyone, no matter how badly they treated her . . . because she couldn't see that she was worthy of anything better.

She'd had no respect for herself.

And though this situation now was COMPLETELY different . . . _she_ was completely different . . . it was somewhat unsettling that on any level, twenty years later, she'd still worry about sliding into such an old (terrible) habit like that.

But you never could escape from your past. It was always nipping at your heels, waiting . . . like now . . . to mess with your head at the worst possible moment. And Emily was a bit worried that all that lingering teen angst crap, could potentially ruin this arrangement with Hotch.

And she would just hate for that to happen.

This was going to be good for them, both of them, and not just in the sense that they were going to be having regular mind-blowing sex for a while. The sex was actually kind of a secondary point. The primary reason that they were getting together on these nights, was because they were both lonely. They were lonely, and sad, and isolated.

Terribly isolated.

But they'd discovered that when they were together, intimately, that those things . . . and the rest of the darkness in their lives . . . they were pushed away.

At least temporarily.

So though there were perhaps _some_ correlations to be found with this situation now, and the reasons that she'd slept around in high school (again, she was lonely and sad back then too), the difference now was that she did respect herself. And she did have standards.

And now she was sleeping with someone who cared about her.

But also . . . and this was key . . . _that_ someone, though he was kind and gentle, was also just as fucked up as she was.

Perhaps even more so.

Hotch was broken, and he needed somebody to help make him whole again. Emily was trying to be that somebody for him.

So if anything . . . her eyes suddenly widened as a realization came to her . . . this sex was therapeutic. And that . . . she started to feel that lingering guilt falling away . . . was what truly made all the difference. It wasn't just that they were having sex because they could. Again, it wasn't the two am mindless, drunken fuck before he went home to sleep one off in his own bed. This sex was much more than that.

It was to heal them.

Both of them.

If they could find just the right balance to this little arrangement, the right level of passion tempered with tenderness and affection, they could be . . . correction, _would_ be . . . better people. And that was the ultimate goal of the human race.

Evolution.

That's what they were striving for. A better place in the world. And now that she'd made peace with her little internal conflict . . . though she'd unfortunately stood there ruminating long enough for her teeth to now be chattering . . . Emily knew that it was time to move away from those more serious meditations, and just refocus in again on the fun portion of the evening.

Aka, the actual 'intercourse' portion of the evening.

Which meant . . . she scowled slightly seeing that she'd lost another five minutes . . . that she needed to decide on the damn outfit. Though she was sure that Hotch would 'enjoy' seeing her in any of the clothes she'd picked as finalists . . . at this point he'd probably 'enjoy' seeing her in a burlap sack . . . she still wanted to make sure that she kicked this thing off right.

Given her revelation, setting the right tone seemed all the more important.

So as her gaze shifted across the bed, Emily took in the relative pros and cons of each option.

For instance, the nightgown. Though it was silky, and clingy in all the right places (which upped the sexiness factor), it was also quite elegant, and classy. Unlike say . . . her brow furrowed . . . the open-fronted teddy, and matching teeny tiny bottoms. That was just straight up smutty.

But in a good way.

Or at least she was pretty sure that Hotch would see it in a good way. But she just wasn't sure that she wanted to answer the door . . . on the first night he was spending in her home . . . in a straight up, full on smutty outfit.

Though it was true that no matter what she put on, that smut was really going to be the underlying theme. And that's because she was planning on jumping Hotch's bones . . . and ripping off his clothes . . . the SECOND he walked in the front door.

That's why the clothes were key.

Not that she was planning on raucous sexcapades being her _standard_ greeting for him whenever he came over, but this was a special night. They'd been separated (like really _completely_ separated) since they had gotten back home from Connecticut.

First there was the rest of the weekend (which Hotch had spent with his son), and then he and Dave had flown out to Boston . . . just arriving back that morning . . . while she and the rest of the team had been dealing with a stalker case.

As work weeks went for people them, things were relatively mild . . . no dead children at least . . . but it had still sucked that he'd gone away just when they were starting things up.

It had been six days since they'd checked out of the Dragonfly. Six days since she'd had sex with the man who had reintroduced her to the concept of multiple, _consecutive _orgasms. So to lose THAT man, just when he'd brought all of those special things back into her life, had totally wreaked havoc on her libido. So for their first time at her house . . . when she was now horny as HELL, she was PMS'ing a bit . . . she really didn't want to waste any more time on preliminaries than they needed to.

Hence her plan to rip his clothes off at the door.

Not that she wasn't also planning on feeding Hotch a nice dinner too . . . just because it wasn't a _relationship,_ relationship, didn't mean that they couldn't have pleasant in-house meals together . . . but that could wait until after she'd made him all naked and sweaty. Her lips twitched.

And maybe rinsed him off in the shower.

Yeah . . . she bit her lip, thinking back to their last morning in Connecticut. Hotch all naked and slippery, taking her against the tile wall. Pounding into her again . . . and again . . . and . . .

PHEW!

Okay . . . Emily started fanning herself . . . no more thinking about Hotch screwing her in the shower. Not unless she was actually in a position to recreate those previous events. And though banging a slippery and naked Hotch was a laudable goal, it was not her PRIMARY goal at the moment.

Her primary goal was still picking out her damn lingerie!

All right . . . she reached out to pick up the teddy . . . focus. Though the teddy was an outfit that she was sure Hotch would like, she had now decided (for sure) that it was a little too smutty to greet him at the door in.

After all it wasn't even completely dark yet.

So with that item off the table, Emily walked over to tuck the silky floral print back into the drawer whence it came. It would keep for another day. Maybe she'd save it for some evening when Hotch seemed particularly depressed or stressed out.

It would definitely cheer him up.

And with one less option on the table, Emily was feeling a bit cheerier herself. Though as her eyes darted back over to the alarm clock, she realized that she still really needed to get a move on. He'd called forty minutes ago to say that he was on his way to the elevator. So she knew that even with traffic, that he was going to be showing up any minute. And though her toes and nails were painted, makeup was done and her hair curled and spritzed . . . she'd decided to glam up a little as a treat for him . . . she still didn't want to be RACING down the stairs when he knocked on the door.

Her all red faced and sweaty . . . and not in a good way . . . wasn't exactly going to scream "TAKE ME! TAKE ME NOW!" when she whipped the door open and tried to sport a sexy pose.

That didn't really go with her doubled over huffing and puffing like a train engine.

And with that image in mind . . . of the FIRST thing that she wanted Hotch to see when she opened the door, a "TAKE ME NOW!" outfit . . . Emily knew exactly what she wanted to wear.

The white baby doll.

It was SUPER sexy, but it had a little more coverage than the teddy. Not a lot more, but it wasn't quite so smutty. And unlike the longer nightgown, which she was now carefully folding back up again, as far as Hotch's presumptions were concerned, there would be no doubt as to EXACTLY when the sexual festivities would be starting.

Immediately.

And once she'd tucked her pretty blue nightgown back into the dresser, making a mental note maybe to wear it for his next visit, Emily went up to her underwear drawer to pull out a tiny white lace thong.

Though she wasn't a fan of them for day to day wear . . . she preferred her 'out of the house' underwear to be a bit more modest , all she could think was what if she got shot and how embarrassing that would be if they cut her clothes off in the ambulance . . . lace thongs were obviously perfect for evenings like this.

Ones where she'd only be wearing them for five or ten minutes.

And after she'd slipped on the little scrap of fabric . . . it was literally a 'scrap,' not even half the size of the regular "normal " underpants that she'd worn to work that day . . . Emily went back over to the bed and slipped the baby doll over her head, trying to be careful not to muss up her fancy hair.

The material felt soft and silky as it fell down around her skin, and onto her breasts.

And when she walked over to look at the full length mirror in the closet, her eyes crinkled as she fixed the little bow in the middle of the torso.

Perfect.

Hotch . . . as she had learned last week from all the fabulous nibbling and caressing of her nipples. . . was most definitely a breast man. And these lacy little peekaboo cups were a breast man's DREAM!

And now that she was properly dressed . . . and amazingly feeling both sexy AND confident in her appearance . . . a rare combo for a thirty plus year old woman who still suffered from major bouts of poor self-esteem, Emily went over to her vanity. There she spritzed on a bit of her best perfume, and then headed over to the bedside table closest to the window, to pop a Tic Tac from the emergency box she kept in her nightstand. It was tucked in there next to her condoms, hand sanitizer, lube, super racy old timey romance novel, and pretty pink vibrator in its pretty little white pearl case.

Obviously she never needed the Tic Tacs and lube on the same night that she needed the vibrator and the old timey romance novel, but she just had the one combo 'singular evening' 'partner evening' Sex Drawer, so everything was kind of jammed in there together.

Martha Stewart would not approve.

But fortunately that drawer . . . like the one above it where she kept her backup weapon . . . had a little combo lock on it.

Nobody was getting in there but her.

And once she'd pushed the little drawer shut again . . . though opting to leave the Tic Tacs out in case she decided to jump Hotch's bones again at 3 am . . . she pulled down the freshly changed sheets. Then she turned the end table lamp on its lowest wattage (she was aiming for mood lighting) before taking one last quick look around the room.

Immediately spotting that day's dirty underwear sticking out of the hem of the dress pants she'd been wearing . . . the pants were draped over the end chair by the vanity . . . Emily cringed as she hurried across the room.

'_Yeah, that's super sexy,' _she thought with an eye roll as she yanked the little pair of cotton briefs out. And after she'd gone in to toss them into the bathroom hamper, she paused to do one last check of her appearance.

Most importantly confirming there was nothing green in her teeth, her hair hadn't flattened out into some weird helmet shape, and makeup wasn't running down her face.

Aaaand . . . her brow creased as she opened her mouth and turned her head back and forth, checking both her hair and her teeth . . . yes, all good. Well . . . she nodded to herself . . . nothing embarrassing happening anyway.

Then Emily's eyes crinkled slightly as she tossed her hair back, and saw the curls fall back down. They were in soft little ringlets brushing her shoulders.

Nice.

Very pretty actually, if she did say so herself. Not that she would actually say that to anybody else . . . she'd sound totally self-involved . . . but for tonight, she knew that she looked damn good, and she was pretty sure that Hotch would agree. Then she felt a little tickle of apprehension in her belly.

Hopefully anyway.

It was always a little nerve wracking trying to plan a night like this. Especially in a situation like this one with Hotch. For one thing everything was all brand new, and they were still finding their sexual footing with each other. And it wasn't like they were dating and in love and he was coming over for this big romantic evening. One where he'd be seeing all of her little bodily faults and potential foibles, with rose colored glasses.

No, he was showing up tonight with REGULAR glasses.

Regular glasses would notice the tiny little laugh lines starting to form around her eyes and mouth. Or the way her boobs were maybe not quite so 'perky' as they had been back in her twenties. She pouted slightly as she turned to look down at her ass.

Nothing was quite as perky as it had been back in her twenties.

But . . . she sighed . . . such was life.

But basically she knew that she could still pull off Hot and Sexy when the situation called for it. And tonight . . . she dabbed a bit of sparkly shadow into her cleavage dip . . . it definitely called for it. Putting aside for a moment all of their emotional bonding, to just focus on the physical, it had been a VERY long time since she'd had a lover as good as Hotch.

And she wasn't going to screw it up!

And now that she was sure everything on display in the teddy was on display in its proper place . . . basically that her nipples weren't doing something horrifying like poking through the lacy bits in different directions . . . it was time to go downstairs.

Again, Hotch would be there at any moment and she wanted to be all cool and collected when he arrived.

And because it was . . . and had been . . . more than a little chilly wearing basically nothing, before she left her room, Emily stopped to get a robe from the closet. Though the robe was a pink plaid flannel . . . and didn't really fit in with her whole 'sexy seduction at the door' theme . . . it was warm.

She'd just toss it on the back of the couch before she let Hotch into the apartment.

So with everything now . . . in her mind . . . as perfectly planned as she could make it, Emily finally headed back downstairs.

Once down in the living room she went over to put a CD in the stereo.

Enya.

Not exactly the backdrop to a dirty, hot sex, porno . . . she'd need a little Nine Inch Nails for that . . . but Enya seemed appropriate for the mood. The bonus being it should (tastefully) drown out most of the sex screaming.

The neighbors didn't need to know she was getting any tonight.

And once The Memory of Trees was playing at an unobtrusive level, Emily turned to look around the downstairs space.

She'd already tidied up when she'd arrived home from work, so fortunately the living room looked nice and neat for company. And she'd opted not to make a big mess in the kitchen . . . her cooking skills were only about average anyway . . . by just picking up takeout. Chicken marsala and tiramisu from her favorite Italian restaurant.

Yum.

So with that nice dinner chilling in the fridge, they'd have something to eat a little later in the evening. Sometime after they'd worked up an appetite

Just then the doorbell rang, and Emily's heart started pounding as her eyes snapped down to the end of the little hallway.

Showtime.

After she took a little breath to calm her nerves . . . it was silly to be so nervous, she'd just seen the man three hours ago . . . she started over to the door yelling, "one second" as she walked closer.

Though she'd planned to drop the robe on the couch, her FBI brain had just reminded her that maybe, just maybe, somebody else was at the door besides the man that she was planning on having sex with. Like it could be the doorman with a package. And that would be a 'package' of the non, bad porno variety.

Or maybe just her next door neighbor looking to borrow a cup of sugar.

And she really didn't want to greet either of those theoretical people . . . or really ANYONE besides Hotch . . . in a skimpy little white teddy.

It would set a bad tone for future interactions.

So before she, literally, dis_robed_, she stopped at the door . . . getting up slightly on her freshly self-pedicured tiptoes . . . to peek out through the peephole.

But fortunately . . . her eyes crinkled as she broke into a huge smile . . . it was Hotch.

YAY!

Feeling another little flush of excitement . . . and butterflies . . . she quickly slipped off the flannel. Then she hurled it . . . in balled up form . . . through the open doorway of the rarely used dining room off to the left and slightly behind her.

Then she took another deep breath to push out her breasts a bit, and turned the deadbolt.

When the door swung open, to Emily's disappointment she saw that Hotch wasn't even looking at her. He was staring down at his phone reading something. She pouted slightly.

Well, so much for making her dazzling first impression.

"Sorry, I'm so late," Hotch murmured as he got to the end of his email from the Forensics lab, "I got stuck on a call, and then Strauss wanted me to send the . . . "

And then he looked up.

And his mouth fell open.

"Whoa."

Emily smiled . . . finally!

"Hi."

Hotch blinked.

"Hi," he croaked back while jamming his phone into his jacket pocket. "Wow . . . just wow."

His gaze ran up from her toes painted with the bright red polish . . . that was new since last week . . . up and over her stunningly gorgeous legs . . . just as he so fondly remembered them . . . and then up to the little white cotton nightgown just skirting her thighs.

That thing . . . whatever the hell fancy name the women had for it . . . had just became his favorite outfit EVER(!)

Finally his gaze settled back on her beautiful face. He shook his head in disbelief.

"You look amazing, Emily."

God, this regular sex thing was SUCH a good idea! And if his damn phone rang even ONCE tonight, he was seriously considering flushing the damn thing down the toilet!

Feeling a little blush hit her cheeks . . . though she'd known she'd looked good, it wasn't the same as getting that level of validation from him . . . Emily murmured back a quiet "thanks," as she stepped back further into the hall.

"So," she put her hand on her hip and struck a little pose, "are you coming in?"

Hotch's gaze dropped down, his eyes locked for a moment on those luscious breasts almost falling out of the lacy material in front of him. His eyes snapped back up to hers.

And he smirked.

"Hell yes, I'm coming in."

Emily burst out laughing, all pretext of serious seductress gone . . . that was never going to last.

It just wasn't her thing.

"Good," she chuckled while reaching out to grab his tie, "because the last two and a half hours of me getting ready," she yanked him through the doorway, "would have been TOTALLY wasted if you decided to go home now!"

Hotch, dropping his bag to the floor, caught Emily around the waist just as he kicked the door shut behind him.

"Not a chance in HELL of me going home now," he growled, backing her into the wall.

She was already pushing off his jacket as he pulled her into a blistering kiss, that involved a hell of a lot better Frenching than she'd ever done in a high school boy's bathroom.

And after she got Hotch's jacket off . . . and his arms were free again . . . his hands immediately moved up to do the same for her breasts, pushing aside the flimsy straps, to slide those perfectly shaped globes out of the little lacy enclosures.

He dropped down to suck one of her nipples into his mouth.

Emily moaned and hooked her leg around his thigh, pulling him in closer.

Pulling him into her.

She wanted to feel that bulge forming. That heat. It was what she'd been waiting for all week.

And as Hotch's mouth continued to lick and suck her breasts and nipples, his hands dropped down to slide her thong off her hips. If she hadn't been so incredibly turned on, Emily would have laughed.

Two plus hours to get ready . . . the scrap of fabric hit her feet . . . and Hotch was going to have her stripped naked in thirty seconds flat.

But then to her surprise, he stopped undressing her. His mouth was still busy with her breasts as one of his hands moved around to her ass, and the other moved in to cup around her own . . . much softer . . . heat.

She immediately jerked up against his touch, desperately trying to get his fingers to go where she wanted them to go.

But they wouldn't.

Unlike the week before when he immediately began to work on bringing her to climax, this time he was doing nothing like that. He just tightened his hold, his palm pressing more deeply into her soft flesh, his fingers spreading out, and into her . . . but basically staying still. It was a possessive touch. And she realized then what he was doing . . . marking territory.

Marking what he felt was now his.

Alpha male dominance, at its purest . . . and feminism be damned, she'd never been so turned on in her LIFE!

But two could play at that game.

And as he continued to nibble and lick her breasts while she continued rub against his fingers, feeling the wetness spreading even without his stimulation, she moved on to begin fumbling with his belt.

Before he knew it she'd yanked down his zipper and pushed his pants and boxers past his hips. His erection sprang out . . . and she marked her own flag.

Her hands began stroking it, back and forth, feeling it getting harder beneath her touch.

Hotch immediately gasped, his head snapping up from her breasts just as his hands fell away from both her ass . . . and her wet pussy.

They dropped back down to his side.

Now she was in control.

And feeling that power and dominance . . . and understanding what a drug it was, especially being in charge of someone like him . . . she licked her palm. And then she gently squeezed and tugged, running her hands back and forth . . . up and down . . . using her spit and his pre-cum as a lube to keep the movements smooth and steady. She was watching him the whole time. Watching his breath coming in small pants while his eyes were locked onto the wall behind them.

And then his breath caught, just as his eyes fell shut.

"Emily," He hissed, "whaa . . ."

The rest of his words were lost in a breathless moan as she moved one of her fingers up just behind his scrotum, to stroke back and forth, caressing that special spot.

He didn't even try to speak again.

She smiled, leaning up to smack a quick kiss to his lips even as she went back to focusing her efforts on the continued slow and steady pump that was clearly bringing him so much pleasure.

Even if the lack of control was moving him out of his psychological comfort zone.

But that was the goal here. Not just the orgasms, which were really the fun byproduct of this arrangement, but the bonding.

He needed to learn to trust people again.

And this was an excellent place to start. There was no greater trust exercise than learning to allow somebody else to control your body. And that's exactly what she was doing. But she would never abuse that power.

She just wanted him to feel good.

And seeing his hands had curled into fists as he began to pant a small litany of curses interspersed with a deep moan every time she touched that senstive spot, Emily realized that she really was completely in control.

Which meant that she could take things a step farther.

Now she had the opportunity to do something that she'd wanted to do the week before . . . the thank you she hadn't had the chance for before they left Connecticut. So after one more soft kiss on his lips, where she whispered.

"Trust me."

She dropped down to her knees . . . and then she took him into her mouth.

Slowly moving back and forth, sucking and licking the shaft while gently stroking the sensitive skin on the underside of his testicles . . . and again . . . just a bit further back.

That was the spot that was making his eyes roll back.

And though she knew from the way his muscles were quivering and his breath was catching, that he was trying desperately to hold onto his last vestiges of control . . . she also knew that even he couldn't control biology. So she started going faster, moving her head back and forth, her lips tight as she sucked and sucked feeling that little trickle of juice running into her mouth. She reached back to touch him again.

And that's when he lost it.

His hips bucked with just the contact . . . apparently everything had reached a level beyond just sensitivity . . . and he swore as he thrust into her mouth.

"JESUS CHRIST EMILY!"

Hotch doubled over, his palms slamming against the wall as he began to thrust over and over into Emily's mouth. The action was involuntary . . . and he was trying to stop, he was about to lose all control . . . but Emily was making that nearly impossible.

Her mouth was so warm and wet, and she was taking him deeper and deeper. Her hands had stopped playing . . . she'd been killing him with that touch . . . and had moved back to his ass.

She was holding him in place.

And he just couldn't stop the rush . . . or the cursing. Because he had never let Haley . . . or the few women before her . . . ever touch him this way. They'd never taken take things this far.

And he was about to lose his last shred of control.

But then Emily finally pulled back for a split second to suck in a breath of air, and that gave him the opportunity to able to croak out something besides the Lord's name.

"Emily," he gasped as she deep throated him again, "please . . . I can't," he sucked in another breath, "hold out much longer."

This had not been his plan! He was supposed to be the one in charge . . . NOT the other way around!

Knowing that they'd gone far enough with the lesson for one day, Emily gave one final . . . lengthy . . . sunctiony . . . run along Hotch's length, and then she slowly pulled away.

With the back of her hand, she wiped off her mouth. And then she looked up at him with a soft smile.

"That was my thank you for all the special attention you've been giving me and my nipples. I just wanted you to know that I had some," she smirked, "sucky skills of my own."

"And now," she simultaneously climbed back to her feet, while stepping completely out of her thong, "my turn to get in on the fun."

Trying to ignore his throbbing cock . . . if he didn't come soon he was going to break something VITAL . . . Hotch backed Emily against the wall again.

Though that time there was a scowl on his face.

"I almost came in your mouth."

There was more than a little genuine anger in his voice . . . after all, he was genuinely irritated . . . but it didn't seem to bother her.

Or surprise her.

What _was _it about this woman?

"Oh come on," Emily pouted, her hands settling down to stroke along his hips, "are you trying to say that you didn't enjoy my thank you present?"

Hotch took a breath . . . it was impossible to stay angry with that pout, especially when she was running her hands along his body that way.

So his expression softened.

"No," he reached out, holding one hand on her side, while the other gently pressed into her, making sure she was ready for him, "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that's not something I'm comfortable with."

Seeing the little crease settle in her brow, as the pout morphed to a frown . . . he knew that he'd hurt her feelings. Clarification was in order.

"You are incredibly talented," he leaned down to kiss her, mumbling against her lips, "and it felt amazing. But I'd rather we didn't go too far there." He pulled her close, whispering in her ear, "I prefer to be inside you."

Then he started slowly rubbing his thumb around her clit.

"I know that's what you want," Emily began to rub against his hand, her fingers now clenching into his t-shirt, "that's what I want too. But I can also do other things to bring you to that point, Hotch. Things like that. I just want you to trust me. Trust that I won't hurt you." She leaned back then to look at him, her face flush, her hips rocking, feeling his touch bringing her closer and closer to climax.

"Trust me like I'm trusting you now." Her breath started to catch just as her hand came up to his cheek, "I trust that you won't hurt me. It should be the same."

Hotch's stared down for a moment at her ruddy cheeks, before his gaze shifted to the wall, digesting her words. And then he nodded.

"All right. We can try it a little," his eyes snapped back to hers, "but I can't promise anything. We have to go slow."

Emily started to respond, but then her breath caught again.

"We'll talk after . . ." she swallowed, "tonight."

And feeling Hotch's length pressing against her stomach, she moaned.

"I'm ready," her eyes started to fall shut, "you can run the rest of the shoooo . . . ah, FUCK me!"

Seeing . . . and feeling from moisture pooling in his hand. . . that Emily was now in the throes of her first orgasm of the night, Hotch took advantage of the moment to quickly step the rest of the way out of his pants and boxers, and shake his dress shirt to the floor.

Socks and t-shirt would have to stay.

And then . . . with Emily still rocking on his hand and his cock about ready to explode from a life threatening case of blue balls . . . he made the quick change. Pulling his fingers out and hoisting her up.

Her leg immediately locked over his hip . . . and he slid inside her.

They both gasped.

"Do it hard," she panted as he began to move, "go hard, and go fast," her lips latched onto his throat, her breath now coming in erratic bursts, "I can feel another one coming."

And here again, multiple, consecutive, orgasms. Best, lover . . . she bit back a scream . . . EVER!

"All right," Hotch sucked in a shallow breath, "hard and fast, but you have to tell me if it hurts."

Seeing her nod and gasp again, he began to pound away.

Over and over, losing count after a few minutes of how long they were there building it up, just losing himself in the exquisite pleasure to be found in that warm, tight, space.

And over his own gasps and pants, he listened to Emily's breathing becoming faster and more erratic. It was hot in his ear . . . driving him CRAZY!

And then he felt her whole lower body shaking around him. She was screaming his name. And the Lord's. And that knocked his own pleasure up another notch.

But he wasn't _quite_ there yet.

And he so desperately wanted to come at the same time. So once she'd dropped her head back to his chest, he did another quick change.

This time switching them around so that he was against the wall, and hitching her up completely to wrap her legs around his waist.

Then he began to push into her again, even harder and faster than before. He'd switched them around so he wouldn't hurt her.

Now it was his body taking the rough punishment.

And she was pushing back against him, bouncing and riding him, and half strangling him with the way her arms were locked around his neck.

He LOVED it!

"One mooore," she half moaned, half hissed, her back arching as she locked down around him for the last time.

And that was finally enough for him.

He gave one final groan, and he slammed into her one more time. And then . . . as his world was filled with light . . . he spilled into her.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!

And with that, he almost fell to the floor. Instead catching himself by slumping back and letting the wall hold them both up, while he waited for his heart to stop pounding and some of the oxygen to go back into his lungs.

If sex with Emily didn't honest to God kill him, it would be a fucking miracle!

Though Emily seemed to be in about the same physical condition he was. Her body was sweaty where she was wrapped around him, and her heart was pounding against his chest.

Their beats had synced together.

Then finally . . . when they both were able to take a deep breath again . . . she leaned back, her arms still around his neck while she gently kissed his brow.

"Good job," she whispered, her eyes crinkling as her fingers came up to brush through his hair, "I've been looking forward to EXACTLY that, all week."

His lips curved in a tired smile.

"Well," he huffed, "I can't take all the credit. You were clearly a key component to the process. And also," he shot her half a dimple, "you did greet me at the door looking like every man's secret fantasy."

"Yeah well," she shot back a sleepy huff, "we can't count on that every time. Don't forget this is me after two hours of special grooming."

"No," he shook his head, his expression softening, "that's just you."

Again feeling the little butterflies in her stomach . . . and again wondering how this man could be so amazingly sweet and nobody else seemed to know it . . . Emily gave him shy . . . slightly watery . . . smile.

"Thank you for making me feel like I'm special," she whispered, "nobody else does that like you do."

Then she leaned down to give him a thank you kiss. The kiss was soft and gentle . . . they were both too exhausted for anything more involved than that. And when Emily was done saying thank you, she moved her hand back to his neck, and tucked Hotch's head down against hers.

She rubbed her cheek against his stubble.

They stood there for another minute, just breathing in the same air. And when he finally seemed to have enough strength to straighten up again . . . even with a physique like his, that was still a hell of a work out . . . instead of lowering her to the floor as expected, Emily felt Hotch slide his arm more securely under her bottom and hitch her up a little. So she pushed herself up a bit more, feeling his pubic hairs tickling the backs of her thighs. And once she was sure that he didn't want to put her down, she locked her legs tightly at the small of his back.

Her head dropped down to rest on his shoulder. He squeezed her tight.

It was a vertical cuddle.

She liked it.

"I picked up dinner," she murmured with a soft kiss to his throat, "it's in the fridge. But if you want, we can go up and take a nap before we eat."

Hotch nodded slowly.

"Yeah," he gave a little nod and a weary sigh, "a nap sounds really good."

And with that, he turned on his heel, and started for the stairs.

* * *

_A/N 2: See, definitely taking advantage of that M rating!_

_Funny, all the stories I've written with them as a couple, I've never written Emily planning a big 'sex night' with Hotch. Well, there is one little chapter in The Hours coming up (it was in the original story) but it's nothing as involved as this one here. Because there they are already a couple, and here it's an affair. And right now everything's new and she's trying to be a good 'hostess,' and it's more of a traditional getting all gussied up production. I think that's why when the scene started coming to me, that I had to write it down. It was her all nervous and excited and just a little bit conflicted about the whole idea of the arrangement, and just trying to capture that moment of her, with a certain amount of 'single woman, pushing 40' insecurities about inviting a man over for a night like this. _

_And seeing as this is a story at its core, (and in the title!) all about them having sex, I figured I'd hit the ground running with the first night back home. Not that all the chapters will be like this, in fact they most definitely will not be :), but it just worked here to continue the tone from how the last story ended. Also the blow job was kind of key (a vaguely similar moment was touched on in Second Chances) to show Hotch in his emotionally closed off, ultra alpha stage, not trusting Emily enough for him to let go completely. _

_It's just in this version she had more control over the moment, so it took him longer to 'shut it down.' Though if you follow them all the way through to "Life & Such" you'll know there is a chapter there where it very clearly is alluded to that 'oral' on both sides, is a common thing. So again, as in Chances, the more explicit element to the sex, had an underlying goal to move them forward on a psychological bonding level too. And given that hot, sweaty sex is a topic that might be outside some people's comfort zones, I thought best to let them know up front, the outer edges of the envelope we'll be pushing. Now they can decide if they want to stick around :) _

_Like I said above, I have chapter two written as well, but I'm going to try to clean up some other drafts first before I post it. Trying to get some balls juggling again! And not just Hotch's! :)_

_Thanks in advance for any feedback, hope you liked chapter 1!_


	2. Profiling The Past

**Author's Note:** Merry Christmas! This is all I have for you :)

This chapter has a different feel to it than chapter one. You'll see the angst of the situation starting to bubble up. Because of course this is going to be a messy ride, what would be the point otherwise? If you want straight fluff, you can go dig through the holiday one shots :)

* * *

**Profiling the Past**

Emily placed the small black cell phone on the nightstand as she sat down on the edge of the bed. Then she leaned over to brush her fingers through Hotch's hair.

He'd only been sleeping for about a half an hour, and though she figured he was still tired, unfortunately that was all the nap he was going to get.

"Hotch," she whispered, "you have to wake up now."

It took a second, but then his lashes began to flutter. And a second after that, he looked up at her with a sleepy befuddlement in his eyes.

She felt a little stirring of warmth for him.

This was a man who spent the majority of his waking life, a hard as nails, bad ass. When serial killers had nightmares, Aaron Hotchner was the thing that they dreamed about. But here he was in her bed, naked . . . vulnerable.

Real.

Seeing him like that made her feel special. It made everything about this feel special.

"JJ called," she murmured as her thumb stroked slowly along his cheek, feeling the light stubble, "you have to call her back."

Though that was the reason that she'd come back to her room two minutes after going downstairs to get a drink of water, seeing Hotch now all handsome and sleepy, all she wanted to do was climb back into bed.

It would be nice to get in a cuddle before they ate.

Hotch blinked slowly, trying to focus on Emily's words. It was a little hard to do when his body wasn't quite done yet with its sleep cycle. Finally he focused in on the key word.

JJ.

"JJ," he cleared his throat and blinked again, "did you talk to her?"

His voice was still husky with sleep.

"No," Emily shook her head as her hand fell off his cheek and down to his leg, "I didn't answer. I just heard it ringing when I went to down to get a drink." Her eyes flickered momentarily to the nightstand, "your phone's there. And if you want them," she reached down to retrieve the item she'd dropped on the rug. "I brought your boxers up too."

Her eyes crinkled slightly as she shook the black plaid material.

"I wasn't sure if you needed pants to feel authoritative on the phone."

Though she did hate to encourage him getting dressed . . . it would just be more to yank off again in an hour . . . she figured he'd probably want to at least have his boxers on for when they ate. And also, even if she would have enjoyed keeping him naked all night . . . there wasn't a hetero woman ALIVE who wouldn't enjoy that . . . it seemed likely that with her in the baby doll, he'd probably want to put on _something _so that it wasn't her in "clothes," and him buck naked.

That would likely be perceived by him as a power shift thing.

Though he'd probably be less inclined to interpret it that way, once he found out that she' d opted to NOT retrieve her thong when she went downstairs. For the rest of the time that Hotch was in her home, she had no intention of wearing anything down below that was going to impede the process of digital, tongal, or penile insertion. Or in plain English . . . no underwear or pants for the rest of the night.

It would just slow down her orgasms.

One of Hotch's dimples popped out as he pushed himself up and the blankets fell to his waist. Then he leaned back against the headboard and rolled his neck.

"Thanks," he stifled a yawn, "but I actually _don't_ need pants to feel 'authoritative.'" Then he added drily, "I can fake it when I need to."

Emily felt her lips begin to twitch.

"That's what she said."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she snorted, and then quickly slapped her hand over her face to cover up the bubbling laughter.

Hotch stared at Emily for a moment, his eyes wide with astonishment . . . and then he too burst out laughing.

"I can't_ believe_ you said that!"

Emily's laughter morphed to a sheepish giggle.

"Me either! But I was watching an Office mini-marathon the other night. I guess the joke got stuck in my head."

Then she snorted again.

"Good thing I just said that in front of you and not the boys," she shook her head. "They would have been busting my chops for weeks."

It would have been double entendres for WEEKS, just so they could work "that's what she said" into as many conversations as possible!

"Oh, please," Hotch huffed while turning to pick up his phone from where Emily had placed it on the little table, "like I'll be letting you forget it either."

"Yeah, well," she asked with a raised eyebrow, "are you planning on bringing it up in the middle of the next police precinct just to embarrass me?"

Seeing the _'seriously?_' look Hotch shot her, Emily knew the response there was a "no." And feeling another little wave of affection for him . . . Hotch's sense of humor was much more well defined than most people knew, but it was also never at anyone else's expense . . . she leaned forward to smack a quick kiss to his lips.

But then he caught her around the waist, and pulled her in closer.

One hand slid around his bare torso, while the fingers of her other hand pressed against his chest. And the quick little kiss, ended up going on long enough that she lost her breath.

That was becoming an occupational hazard when it came to kissing Hotch.

"So the uh," she panted slightly while pulling back, licking her lips, "um, phone call." She continued with a slightly breathless swallow. "Do you want me to leave while you talk to her?"

Hotch scrunched up his face as his hand slid down her back to settle on her hip.

"Why would I expect you to leave your bedroom, Emily?" He asked in confusion. "That would be ridiculous."

Then he moved his hand off her hip to pick up the edge of the blankets. "Here," he lifted them back, "come lie down with me for a bit. If we had to go wheels up, JJ would have been calling non-stop. And she also would have called you by now too. So," he flipped the covers over, "it can't be urgent. Most likely it's just a new consult."

Hopefully. Because this was the first night that they were 'officially' trying out their new arrangement. And given the constraints of their work schedules . . . he and Rossi had been called back out of town just thirty-six _hours_ after they got back from Connecticut . . . simply fitting in a night for 'decompression' (sex) had been much more difficult than he'd anticipated it would be. And now that having regular sex was an option for him again, the thought of NOT getting it when he'd _planned_ to get it, was enough to seriously piss him off!

Emily started to crawl over Hotch to get to the other side of the bed. But then she paused, her eyes dropping down to linger longingly over his naked . . . now completely exposed . . . body.

All of his muscles were so lean and hard . . . her gaze shifted further south . . . and something else was a bit hard as well.

She wondered if that meant he'd been dreaming about her.

The thought made her happy. So much so that she wanted to reach out and stroke the semi-soft shaft, until it had again become the hard as steel rod that she'd been deep throating downstairs. And then once she had him exactly the way she wanted him . . . locked and loaded . . . she could drop down onto his lap, and ride him like a bucking bronco.

Yippee ki-yay!

But unfortunately neither the stroking, nor the bronco riding, was an option right now.

For a few reasons.

One, they couldn't be having sex while he was talking to JJ (that would be creepy). Two . . . and more importantly . . . they couldn't be having sex while he was doing a serial consult (that would be straight out unseemly), and three . . . and this was also a big one . . . she was freaking STARVING!

Until she got some food into her, she wasn't going to have the energy for Hotch riding, bucking and otherwise.

So instead of reaching out to fondle her new favorite toy . . . and that was not just Hotch's penis, but the whole Hotch package . . . after one final, longing, pout, she just continued over him to the other side of the bed.

And then she was curling up at his side.

She placed her head on his chest, her leg she curled over his thigh, and her fingertips began lightly stroking along his abdomen. Next to cuddling on top of him, Emily had decided that this was her favorite non-sexual position with Hotch. Though of course non-sexual didn't mean not naked.

Everything with Hotch was better when they were naked. Except of course probably cooking.

That might be a little dangerous.

And after she had herself situated . . . and had placed one quick kiss on his collarbone . . . Hotch fixed the blankets back over both of them. Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

"I'm glad you didn't put that thong back on," He murmured while scrolling through his contacts.

Emily chuckled.

"Oh, did I flash you?"

"I saw less of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct." He stated flatly while pressing send on his phone.

Seeing the furrowed brow he got when Emily lifted her head, Hotch shot her a dimple.

"I only saw that movie once on cable, and have no desire to see it again." Then he winked, "but you can flash me anytime. Oh, hey JJ," his attention shifted to the call, "what's up?"

Emily's lips twitched . . . one of the dirtiest compliments she'd ever received, but . . . she leaned up to kiss his cheek . . . she'd take it.

And as he continued his call with their media liaison . . . fortunately it did just seem to be consult situation . . . she put her head back down, and snuggled into his side. Though she could have gone downstairs to watch TV or start heating up dinner, that seemed counterproductive to the point of the evening.

Decompressing.

The sex was great, but there was nothing to say that they had to be screwing each other's brains out for EVERY waking moment that they were alone together. This stuff was nice too. Just lying there, feeling his warm body pressed against hers, and the hard muscles beneath her fingers.

And just like seeing him wake up in her bed with that sleepy, tousled look . . . it was real. And it was a reality that made her strangely happy.

But after a few minutes of listening to Hotch talk, Emily found herself starting to blink. And that was even though he was discussing a brutal home invasion out in southern Oregon. Apparently her brain could now tune out even the most disturbing of imagery. But that might have had something to do with the steady thump of Hotch's heart beneath her ear.

It was soothing.

So much so, that the next thing Emily knew, her lashes were fluttering open again to see Hotch staring at her.

He was stooped down next to the bed.

"How long was I out?" She mumbled while putting her hand up to cover a yawn.

His expression softened.

"About an hour," he whispered while reaching out to brush her hair back behind her ear, "it's a little before ten. You missed the whole call with the LEOs out in Portland. Three home invasions in the last thirty-six hours. Four dead."

Emily stared at him for a moment, her vision clearing. And then her lower lip popped out.

"So we have to go wheels up?"

There was no hiding the disappointment in her voice. Though ordinarily she didn't resent the travel demands of her job . . . the job was voluntary, nobody made her stay . . . she just wasn't in the mood to get up, strip off her sexy lingerie and pull on her (literal), Agent Prentiss armor. Because given the night that they'd actually had _planned_ . . . making love for hours . . . the thought of going off to look at dead bodies instead, was gut wrenchingly depressing.

But then she saw Hotch shake his head.

"No," he continued softly, his hand stilling on her cheek, "no, they said they could handle it. They just wanted to run down their own profile with me to see if I could add anything to narrow the suspect pool."

Though he wasn't sure that they'd be able to wrap the case as quickly as they were hoping . . . they were hoping to catch the UNSUBs before any more blood was shed . . . they did seem to have a quality team out there. So he was keeping a good thought that they'd have somebody in custody by the end of the week.

If they didn't he was pretty sure they'd be calling again.

"So we _don't_ have to get dressed and go sit on the jet for five hours?" Emily asked warily.

Hotch's lip quirked up.

"No," he shook his head, "we don't. We are still grounded. But you do have to get out of bed," he abruptly pulled the blankets back and reached out to take her hand, "because I'm starving and the timer's going to ding in about five minutes."

Emily blinked in surprise as Hotch tugged her up.

"The timer?" She asked, as her feet sunk into the plush carpet, "so you were playing Batman _and_ Emeril at the same time?"

Wow. While working a horrible case on the phone, he'd gone ahead and prepped dinner for them too. 'Domestic initiative' was an additional 'pro' quality that she had not been aware he possessed. Now she was thinking she might have to up the sex to three nights a week.

Four if he could bake too.

"It's called 'multi-tasking' Prentiss," Hotch responded drily as she looked up at him, "there were no capes or aprons involved. Once I realized that I was going to be stuck on the phone for a while, and that you were sound asleep. _Very_ sound," he added with a faint crease to his brow, "and your breathing's starting to get a little raspy again by the way, you might want to take an allergy pill tonight, I figured I should get dinner in the oven."

"Do you do windows too?" Emily asked with a little smile.

"Perhaps," Hotch smirked, "if properly motivated." Then he kissed the top of her head and turned to pick up the flannel robe that he'd brought back upstairs with him.

"You need to put this on," he held it up for her, "I saw the belt sticking out the dining room when I went down to get my clothes, so I figured you wearing it earlier. And though I am a huge fan of you in the little white nightgown and nothing else, I know that you'll turn into a popsicle if you try to sit and eat dinner in that outfit. And I'd rather you not get sick."

It was a little chilly with the air conditioning, which was why he'd pulled his boxers back on before he went downstairs. He figured he wasn't exactly going to look his most 'virile' and attractive if his testicles had shrunken up into tiny, (literal), snowballs.

No woman was looking for snowballs.

Emily bit her lip.

"Thanks," she murmured as she turned, slipping her arms into the sleeves and wondering how it was that this man that she wasn't even really dating could be so ridiculously good to her, and yet the last guy who took her out on an ACTUAL date, didn't even bother to open the door for her.

And SHE got stuck with the dinner check!

Just then . . . feeling Hotch wrap his arms around her to tie the little belt at her waist . . . thoughts of her last loser outing, were forgotten. Emily felt tears starting to pool.

Must be PMS'ing.

Her eyes fell shut for a moment. And feeling Hotch's head resting on her shoulder, and his hands clasped on her stomach, she felt warm . . . and safe.

The same sensations that she'd had the week before in Connecticut.

"Thanks for getting my robe," she whispered, while her fingers stroked along the curve of his wrist, "and thanks for letting me sleep while you got dinner ready."

"No problem," Hotch murmured back with a little nuzzle of her neck.

Though he knew that they needed to go downstairs and eat . . . the food would burn if he didn't take it out soon . . . still he stood there, holding her close and just enjoying the moment.

Given that this was only the third night that they'd spent together so intimately, this in itself was special. And it was something that he was still getting used to having again.

Simple human contact.

And by human contact, of course he meant more specifically . . . he kissed Emily's neck . . . female contact. The soft body, the smooth curves . . . the delicate fingers wrapped around his.

Emily was a woman of his own.

One that he could touch and hold and kiss, whenever he wanted to. Well . . . he felt a little tug of melancholy . . . at least on these nights that they were alone together. But even that was more than he'd had in forever, so he would take what he could get without complaint. And though this wasn't a romance, it was interesting how that didn't seem to matter to his level of contentment. It was just enough that . . . for these little pockets of time . . . Emily was his, and his alone.

It was enough to settle his soul.

So he slowly turned her around in his arms.

"I really like your perfume," he whispered, his hand coming up to brush the hair from her shoulder. "I meant to tell you that earlier, but," his lip quirked up, "I got distracted by this really hot girl, in a really tiny outfit, who started taking my clothes off."

Emily's eyes crinkled faintly.

"You like this tiny outfit, huh?" She asked while slipping her arms around his waist, "I'll have to remember to wear it the next time I'm going to be late for work." Then her lip quirked up. "Though it might be a bit of a work out for the poor little thong, trying to hold my holster up all by itself."

Hotch's mouth started to quiver at the imagery of her wearing the skimpy outfit, with her holster on the side. But then he felt the quiver morphing to a full on smile, so he quickly put his hand up to cover his amusement.

Emily immediately reached up, and pulled his hand back down.

As she stared at him, her eyes now dark and serious, the levity was drained from the moment.

"What?" He asked in confusion, "what's wrong?"

In response to the question, she let go of his hand and went up on her tiptoes, to wrap her arms around his neck. Then she pulled him down into a kiss. It was long and deep, and after a moment he leaned back, lifting her from the carpet.

Though he didn't know why she'd kissed him . . . and why so passionately . . . it didn't mean that he wasn't still going to enjoy it all the same. And with her pulled up and against his chest . . . he bit back a moan as her tongue brushed against his . . . they had a better angle for oral exploration.

And though the kiss was intense . . . and lengthy . . . neither of them made a move to escalate things further.

They weren't looking for foreplay.

And after a few minutes, he slowly began to lower her back down to the carpet.

Once her feet were back on the ground, Emily finally broke off the kiss that she'd started a few minutes before.

As she pulled away, she could feel her breath coming in slow little pants. Hotch was still leaning down close, his breath mingling with hers. So she caught the hands he had resting on her hips. Then she wound their fingers together, and pressed her forehead against his.

"I know," she whispered, her eyes locked onto his, "that there are parts of our lives that have never been up for discussion. And that there are parts of our lives that probably never will be. But," her eyes started to water, "if you ever want to talk to me about anything," her voice started to thicken, "anything from your past, anything at all, you can. I would never tell anyone," she squeezed his hands as her voice broke, "I promise."

Though over the last few years, she had sometimes teased him about his reticence in laughing or smiling openly, she knew that she wouldn't do that again. Now when she saw him trying to cover or shut down, it simply made her heart ache.

And that was because of what happened in Connecticut.

They had stayed one more night to help with the body identification, and because it had been another hellish day, on the way back to the inn, they didn't even bother with a pretext that he would sleep in his own room. Though they knew sex on the road couldn't be a regular thing, they were already in for a pound at the Dragonfly. And on that second night together, they didn't even take the time to eat first.

He was unbuckling her belt as she locked the door.

And after it was done, and she'd worked in a nice cuddle, he'd fallen asleep. But it was still early . . . barely ten . . . and they'd only had one meal that day, so she'd carefully slipped out of his arms so she could go pee and then see what was left from their little stock of food.

But then she'd stepped out of the bathroom, and the way the light was falling just so through the crack in the door, she'd seen the faint white and silvery scars on Hotch's back.

It was a strip of them crisscrossing. The marks were long, with even edges.

She'd seen those marks many times before in so many case files.

They were made by a belt.

And though she'd previously had her suspicions about something in Hotch's childhood, something that had planted the seeds for his reserved nature, and that terrible temper of his, she had never really known for sure.

And suspicions weren't the same as proof.

And seeing that proof that he had been beaten, and God only knew what else, had broken her heart. Beneath his hard shell, Hotch was such a kind and compassionate person, and all she could picture was him as a little boy. Probably shy . . . and gentle.

Sensitive.

And how that had been beaten out of him.

Her appetite had been lost in the roiling acid that filled her stomach. So she'd climbed back into bed, wrapped herself around his sleeping form . . . and cried herself to sleep.

Fortunately Hotch hadn't woken up.

Because she could see now, from how his gaze had developed a slight sheen to it . . . just before it shifted away . . . that she had struck a nerve by alluding to his past. Alluding to things that weren't to be discussed.

At least as far as he was concerned.

And she didn't want him to feel uncomfortable . . . it would defeat the whole purpose of them getting together, if he felt like she was probing into things he considered private . . . so as his jaw tightened, she placed a soft kiss on his forehead . . . and then she let his fingers go. Let him go.

Let him have his space.

She moved back to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Please know," she whispered, her eyes on the carpet while her hands twisted into a tight ball on her lap, "that I'm not trying to pry. I wouldn't do that. I want you to feel as comfortable in my home, as you do in yours. But I um," her voice started to thicken again as she again flashed on those marks, "I saw them last week. And I just wanted you to know that I'm here. No matter what else happens," her voice caught, "no matter how long we continue this, or how it ends, I'll always be here," she tried to swallow the lump in her throat, "and you can always trust me."

She had no idea how he would react to what she was saying. In all honesty, she wouldn't be shocked if he picked up his clothes and walked out of the apartment.

Though she was praying that he wouldn't do that.

She wanted him to stay.

Hearing the emotion bleeding into Emily's voice, Hotch closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. This was the risk of beginning any type of personal relationship with another profiler.

They missed nothing.

It was clear to him from both her words and her tone, that she was talking about the scars on his back. And it was also clear from her level of upset . . . and her offer to talk . . . that she had made presumptions about how those scars had gotten there. And given her time in the BAU, and the terrible things that they saw in their files, her presumptions were probably correct. Yes, he had been abused when he was young. This was a fact of his life. A fact that he did not discuss.

With anyone.

And though his instinctual defensiveness would ordinarily make him push ANYONE away who even dared to step onto this forbidden path, at the moment anger and defensiveness weren't the dominant emotions filling him. Not with Emily's hands clenched so tightly in her lap, and the way she was biting her lip as she stared down at the carpet.

She looked much too fragile.

Though he couldn't deny that for a split second . . . when she'd started talking while she was holding his hands, and he'd realized EXACTLY what it was that she was talking about . . . he'd felt that panicked compression in his chest.

The need to flee.

But he pushed past it. Because he knew in his heart that Emily was just being kind. Just trying to help. His eyes started to burn.

She was just being Emily.

And Emily, in all of her sweet, funny, slightly neurotic, glory, was the person that was pulling him back from the brink. That darkness that he'd been sliding into for the last year, it wasn't quite so dark when he was with her. And he didn't want to lose that connection that they were further strengthening with each night together.

But also . . . he bit his lip . . . it would be a cruelty to walk out and leave her.

She'd meant no harm.

But that didn't mean that he wanted to talk about his childhood either. _That_ wasn't happening. And keeping that point in mind . . . his jaw started to twitch . . . there was another one to consider.

What the hell he actually _was_ going to say to her.

Because he couldn't just leave her sitting there, looking so sad and alone.

It was making his stomach hurt.

So he tried to blink away the moisture in his eyes . . . it had been instinctual, she'd been cutting into sore flesh . . . and then he moved over to the bed.

But her eyes stayed fixed on the carpet.

"Are you angry with me?"

Her words were soft, hesitant . . . the pain in his stomach intensified. So he crouched down in front of her. His hands slid under the robe, and up along her bare calves . . . stopping when he got to her thighs.

"No," he murmured, his fingers pressing lightly into her soft skin, "of course I'm not angry with you."

At that, her eyes slowly shifted up to his, and seeing the tears that had pooled, and the pain on her face, his gut twisted again. Feeling an explicable pull . . . her unhappiness was something that had long become nearly impossible for him to ignore . . . he couldn't stop himself from leaning up to give her a kiss. It was soft and gentle.

He just wanted her to feel better.

When he pulled back, his gaze locked onto hers, but her eyes were still sad and watery. And as she stared at him, a tear began to slowly slide down her cheek. And then there was another . . . and another. And as they continued to fall in a steady little stream, suddenly his own eyes began to burn again. Because he knew then from the way that she was looking at him, that she wasn't crying because of that moment . . . because she'd thought that he might be upset with her . . . no, she was crying for the before. For the past that she knew he would never discuss.

She was crying for him.

And she was breaking his heart.

"Oh, sweetheart," his voice was heavy with emotion as his fingertips gently brushed along her cheek, catching her tears, "I'm fine. Please don't cry."

All right, he had not meant to call her sweetheart there, but it was an emotional moment and he was feeling emotionally connected. He didn't think that she'd mind.

Or more importantly . . . he brushed another tear away . . . that she'd read anything into it.

Another tear slipped over, and Emily choked down a sob.

"I'm sorry for getting so emotional," she sucked in a breath, "And I didn't mean to get into any of that tonight. I didn't mean to mention it at all. I just," her breath caught again as she looked down at him, the tears still slowly spilling over, "I was thinking about you. And how sweet you were being to me, and then I started thinking," she sniffled, "well, I started thinking too much." The back of her hand came up to wipe across her face, "I'm always thinking too much. And then I start talking too much. And I guess," she gave him a sad smile, the tears still pooling, "I don't always know when to shut up."

Hotch's brow darkened slightly.

"Hey," he reached up to cup her jaw, "I don't want you to shut up. And I know you only meant well. But I also don't want you to worry about me," he gave her a sad smile, "I'm a big boy now. It's my adult life that I'm trying to get on track. And you are helping me with that Emily. Truly. I know it's only been a week but I . . ."

And he stopped for a second, wondering if sharing his real feelings . . . so soon . . . was a good idea.

Would she think that he was pathetic?

But then he again took in the red rimmed, watery eyes of the beautiful woman in front of him. She was staring with such rapt attention and focus, that he suddenly realized that there was nothing that he was going to say then, nothing he could do, that would result in judgment or ridicule from her.

Emily was a safe place.

So he finished his thought.

"Being with you," he continued softly, "I'm already finding that it's so much better than being without you. And I don't just mean the sex. I mean my life. You're making it better by sharing your time, and yourself. All this last week, no matter how shitty the day was, I had something to look forward to," he touched her cheek, "You. And getting to come here tonight, and seeing you at the door, looking so gorgeous, and sexy, knowing that you did that for me, I won't forget that. And you'll never understand how much that meant," his voice started to thicken, "to have that again, somebody that just wants to be with me. So please believe me when I say that you could not ruin what we're doing by demonstrating concern for me or my past." He leaned in to give her a kiss. "That's you being kind." He murmured against her lips. Then he pulled back slightly to tuck her hair behind her ear. "And it just makes me more confident that you're the right person for me right now, okay?"

Emily sniffled.

"Okay." Then she gave him a watery smile. "You know I liked getting pretty for you tonight. Because what you were saying about just having somebody that wants to be with you, I feel the same way." She tugged on the top of the little white nightie, "I haven't worn this in at least a year, because it's been that long since I had anybody special to wear it for. But now we have this." Her eyes snapped back up to his, "I have you," she squeezed his fingers, "because whatever else this is, or isn't, it's definitely special."

Though they had gone into things agreeing that it wasn't a 'relationship,' she couldn't deny that their bond had already intensified just over the last week. So perhaps it was a relationship, of sorts.

It just wasn't one with a future.

But when she saw Hotch give her a little smile, that didn't seem to matter.

Now was enough.

"Yeah," Hotch's eyes crinkled as he reached up to slip his arms around Emily's waist, "it's definitely special."

Then he pulled her down, half into his lap. She immediately wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her face into the curve of his throat.

Her breath was soft and warm against his skin.

And though that was the moment that he wanted to tell her something else . . . tell her that he had seen her scars too . . . he decided that it would hold until later. Because though that was something that needed to be shared, he was afraid that it would make her cry again.

And he knew that she didn't need that right now.

So Hotch slowly pushed himself to his feet, pulling Emily up along with him. Her arms were still around his neck, and her body was pressed against his. The flannel from her robe tickling his stomach. And given how closely bonded he felt to her in that moment, his overwhelming desire was to just climb back into bed, strip her naked, and make love until they passed out again.

But then Emily's stomach growled . . . and his eyes crinkled. It looked like they were having dinner first.

"Sorry," she whispered as she tipped her head back, "I had a light lunch."

He looked down at her, his mouth beginning to quiver at the sheepish look on her face. Then he remembered her earlier words . . . and her earlier promise . . . and he smiled.

"Let's go eat."

* * *

_A/N 2: There is a groundwork to be put down here to carry them forward and this is it. The arrangement was never going to be just about sex, and these things about each other's pasts that are being shoved in one another's faces, are coming at a completely different stage than the versions of them in actual romantic relationships when they finally began sleeping together. Which is why they're dealing with them differently, which is why this will bring them together differently. There is one more chapter covering this evening together, and then we'll probably do a jump ahead. We'll be coming up on them going to New York soon. His maybe flirting with fake Haley, the two of them blowing up, and JJ's pregnancy. So much angst on the horizon!_

_I've been proofing this while tucked into the corner of my sister's dining room, listening to the insanity that is Christmas with like thirty people in the house. So hopefully it pulled together okay :) Happy Christmas or, Happy Day 359 if you don't celebrate anything at all! _


	3. Domestic Initiatives & Sexual Intermissi

**Author's Note: **Okay kids, just to let you know, we're having a 'dish ran away with the spoon' situation with this story. I just can't STOP writing it! Like obsessively! It's all I can work on! I now have detailed scenes written for the next three weeks of their lives. And I had 32 pages for you today, but it was just too much to proof (and live an actual productive existence on the planet) so I cut it at 11 pages. I hope you'll be happy enough :)

* * *

**Other Accounts:**

_****PERSONAL WEBSITE: www . fractured-reality . com**_

_I have a new website. If interested, you can read more about it (and my future on FF . net) on my Tumblr listed below. It's the June 10th note._

_**Twitter: ffsienna27 **__– For story announcements, etc. If the alerts, (or the site), are down, this is a backup to find out what's going on for postings. There's also random randomness that is my brain._

_**Tumblr: sienna27 **__– More randomness._

_**Tumblr: cmfanficprompts **__– Just as the name describes. Jointly run with Kavi Leighanna. _

* * *

**Domestic Initiatives & Sexual Intermissions**

By the time Hotch and Emily made their way downstairs, dinner was on the verge of being overdone. Fortunately though . . . after he'd cut off the outer edge, now overly crunchy, pasta . . . it was all completely edible.

And quite tasty!

That was to be expected though. Tuscano was one of Emily's favorite local restaurants, and she'd picked the chicken marsala because it was the house specialty. And after the side of antipasto salad, and a couple of day old (toasted) ciabatta rolls she found in the bread box, Emily's stomach FINALLY stopped rumbling like she had a thunder cloud in there.

Of course filling up on the wine helped too.

She'd bought two bottles of Riesling specifically for Hotch's visit. And by the time they were done eating dessert, the first bottle was totally gone, and the second one was half empty. And though consuming all of that food sopped up a 'decent' amount of the alcohol they ingested, it didn't suck up all of it.

They both had a nice little buzz going when they got up to carry their plates back into the kitchen.

Hotch's fingers had started going too.

Just after Emily shut the door to the dishwasher, he caught her around the waist and pulled her back against his chest. Then he started fussing with the tie on her robe.

It was clear that he was trying to get her undressed again.

Emily started to giggle as she brushed his fingers away. Then she turned around in his arms, and explained with a little smile, that unless he wanted her to get a cramp . . . something akin to going swimming too soon after lunch . . . that dinner needed to digest a bit before she'd be back in shape for whatever reindeer games he had in mind for the rest of the evening.

Hotch's eyes crinkled as he whispered back an "understood." Then he kissed her nose, and pulled her into a hug. Emily assumed that he was being so sanguine about her pushing off sex, because he didn't want to risk a broken playmate. Or maybe he really was just that nice.

Or maybe it was a combination of both.

But whatever the reason, with their planned activities temporarily tabled, they decided to do something domestic.

Watch TV.

The decision gave Emily a little flutter in her chest.

It was silly that them deciding to watch television . . . such a ridiculously mundane activity . . . could hold any actual significance as a life decision, but by Emily's estimation, it really did. Because given the parameters of their agreement . . . the agreement that they'd made after they'd slept together for the first time . . . this was supposed to be ALL about the sex.

But it had clearly stopped being all about the sex.

Because they'd just finished having a nice, fancy, dinner. A dinner where they talked about things that had NOTHING at all to do with work, or sex. They talked about favorite restaurants, favorite foods. Best meals they'd ever had. And she'd laughed and fed him dessert, and he'd flashed his dimples and kissed a drop of sauce off her lip. And it all felt so normal.

It all felt so real.

And now they were settling in on her couch with him in his boxers, and her in her old flannel robe, to watch TV. They were doing things that any regular couple would do, on any regular Thursday night.

Hence the flutter.

It was . . . Emily slipped her arm around Hotch's waist as he tucked her against his side . . . another tick in the '_this really WAS a relationship,_' column. And she was beginning to wonder if she should just start to think of it that way . . . AS a relationship. Or would it be healthier to keep up with the pretext . . . even if it was just in her own mind . . . that this arrangement was still just no strings sex, and nothing more. That was the definition still on the table.

But that definition had begun to feel like a lie.

And lies . . . even ones told with the very best of intentions . . . had a way of ruining good things. Actually, by Emily's estimation, a lie had never done anything EXCEPT ruin, a good thing. And for a moment she considered asking Hotch the question that was on her mind.

Had things changed?

But then as they walked into the living room . . . and she almost tripped over a lamp cord . . . she realized that with her brain slightly marinated, perhaps it would be best if she just let the whole thing slide for now. Whatever they were doing, it was what it was.

A new label wasn't going to change what was happening between them.

And with that point in mind, to leave it alone for now . . . or at least leave it alone until a night when she was stone cold sober . . . when they got to the couch and Hotch reached down to pick up the remote, Emily tried to shake off all of her 'deep thoughts.'

Once again, she was thinking too much.

And at the moment thinking too much was serving no purpose beyond adding another dash of angst to an otherwise . . . the little crying fest upstairs notwithstanding . . . happy evening.

So when Hotch started flipping channels, she slipped out from under his arm to go over and turn off the overhead light, leaving just the small lamp in the corner throwing a soft glow across the room. Mood lighting.

Sort of.

But then when she was walking back across the room, Emily noticed that Hotch's expression had changed.

His eyes had just lit up at whatever he'd found on the television.

So her gaze shifted to the entertainment center, to see that The Asphalt Jungle was just about to start on TCM. The host was talking about the history of it.

Hotch's eyes dropped down to hers, and seeing the hopeful twinkle there, a soft smile touched her lips.

It was so rare to see him get excited about anything. And seeing that excitement on his face . . . especially over something so simple and ordinary . . . made that little flutter come back again. Or perhaps she was just having a heart attack.

Either way.

"Good pick," she said with a wink and a little squeeze of his fingers.

And it was a good pick, because she too liked old film noire. But mostly she just liked that the movie made him happy. That alone was reason enough for it to win her approval as their viewing choice for the evening.

It didn't hurt that he rewarded her agreement, with a quick kiss and a pat on the bottom.

And after he'd put the remote back down on the coffee table, and lay down onto the couch, she moved over to climb on top of him. And with her head resting on his bare chest, and his left hand rubbing a light circle on her back, while the right one rested possessively on her ass, they settled in to pretend that this was part of the arrangement too.

So many lies, so little time.

It wasn't until after the opening credits had finished, that Emily realized snuggling up with a man just to watch TV, was an activity that she hadn't engaged in, in almost two years. Since back when she was with Sully.

Back in her last really serious relationship.

Interesting.

Emily's musings about things that may or may not have been important, were interrupted by Hotch suddenly kissing her temple.

Her eyes crinkled.

"What was that for?" She whispered while lifting her head.

"_That_," he murmured back, his eyes locked onto hers, "was for deciding to let dinner digest before we went back upstairs. This is really nice," he gave her a soft smile. "Thank you."

Though he would have expected at least a slight _twinge _of melancholy about what they were doing . . . after all, he and Haley had spent more nights than he'd ever be able to count, curled up watching TV . . . he felt nothing like that. Perhaps it was because those nights with Haley, though they were too many too count, they were also too long ago.

Coming up on two years now.

Not that things had already deteriorated so badly back then . . . back when Jack was a new addition . . . but with a newborn, finding time to be alone together had obviously become more difficult. That point was true for all new parents, but given his work hours . . . and his travel . . . that's when the intimacy of their relationship had really begun to suffer.

Of course that was what he had come to see in retrospect. At the time he hadn't consciously realized yet that anything was wrong.

He was . . . in retrospect . . . a complete idiot.

But then as time went on . . . and his marriage had unraveled to the extent that even HE couldn't miss the signs that their relationship was on life support . . . snuggling had been taken off the table all together.

It was hard to snuggle up together on the couch, when most nights your 'snuggle partner' . . . your 'loving' wife . . . made a point to be in bed, faking sleep, before you even got home.

So by his memories of fairly recent happy times, all Hotch could say for sure was that cuddling up and watching TV, had been an activity that he and Haley had last enjoyed back when she was pregnant. And that might have been exactly why lying with Emily in this same way, wasn't making him feel sad.

It was because the memories that he was connecting to, were happy ones.

The days spent waiting for Jack to join his life.

And _actually_ . . . another thought came to Hotch while he absentmindedly tangled his fingers in his Emily's hair . . . nowadays, his primary snuggle partner _was_ Jack.

When he picked up his boy on the weekends, they always watched at least one full length movie before bed, or before a nap. And Hotch chose that activity specifically to work in more bonding time. He wanted his son to be sleepy and climb into his lap. And then Hotch could feel his warm little body, and smell his little boy smell, and hold his chubby little fingers . . . and all of that darkness in him, would be washed away.

Jack was filled with light. And those moments with him, were now his best days.

Forward and back.

So if lying with Emily this way . . . so innocently . . . could, in some abstract way, also help to fill that same 'Jack gap' in his life, then obviously this experience was going to make him happy too.

It was another way forward into the light.

And that realization was enough to keep him perfectly content through to the end of the movie. But as the end credits began to roll, Emily began to place soft little kisses on his chest, and thoughts of simple contentment were replaced by other (more adult) interests.

Because apparently Emily was ready to go swimming again.

And as she kissed and nibbled her way along his collarbone, he felt the first stirrings down below. And then she sucked his nipple into her mouth, and "stirrings" was no longer the word for what was happening.

Their 'sexual intermission' had now officially come to a close!

Emily grinned against Hotch's chest as she felt the erection beginning to form beneath her. And after one more lick of his chest . . . he really did taste good . . . she shifted herself up and back to straddle his thighs. Her nails scraped lightly along his chest.

That hardening shaft was tantalizingly close to her center.

And then Hotch's hands slid up and around to her ass. And as he held her tightly in place . . . he levered his hips up and pressed into her. Hard.

The thin cotton of his boxers was no impediment to the intimacy of that touch.

Her eyes fell shut.

Slowly, she worked back and forth against that bulge, feeling it get harder as she got wetter. Her hips were starting to work a rhythmic grind against his pelvis.

It was a not so dry hump.

One that felt oh so good! Which was why she let it go on longer than she should have. Because when she opened her eyes again, she saw Hotch's pupils were almost black with desire. One hand had begun to fumble with her belt . . . he had the first knot undone . . . the other hand was about to slip into the gap of her robe. And once he got his fingers in there, there would be no stopping again.

They wouldn't be able to.

"Let's go upstairs this time." She whispered with a little smile, her fingers catching his before they could disappear into her warmth, "after that workout by the door, I'm afraid you might pull a muscle contorting down here again."

Regardless of the (amazingly) good shape that they were both in, they were also both . . . technically . . . pushing middle age. That was an age when their bodies . . . regardless of how toned or muscular . . . didn't quite bounce back from strenuous activities as quickly as they might have when they were both much younger.

And given that she had a nice big soft bed designed, in LARGE part, for strenuous activities such as the ones that they had planned, they should really use it for that intended purpose.

It would save them both from any potentially embarrassing injuries.

Hotch's fingers were caught in Emily's loose grasp just as he was about to touch that wonderful valley. Though that was a frustration, then he suddenly processed Emily's choice of words, and he felt a little stab of hurt.

"Are you saying that I'm _old_?" He asked with a frown.

Though she could tell that he was trying to make the question sound neutral, Emily could also clearly hear a trace of hurt beneath Hotch's words. It was also visible in the turn of his mouth.

Her expression softened in sympathy.

"No Aaron," she murmured, still holding his hand while leaning forward to place a butterfly kiss over his eye, "not at all. I'm saying," she pressed another soft kiss to his other brow, "that I now feel very proprietary about your physical parts, and I want to be sure that all of my favorites among them," she kissed him again, "stay in top working order."

She leaned back to give him a soft smile.

"And though I've never actually tried it," her nose wrinkled, "I just don't think that this couch would be very comfortable for sex. At least not the cushiony part here." Then she shrugged, "now if we were standing up, and you were going to take me from behind, of course that would be a different story. The couch is the perfect height for that."

Momentary indignation at her perceived slight now TOTALLY forgotten, Hotch's brow shot up in barely contained shock.

"You want me to bend you over the back of the _couch_?!"

To his slight embarrassment, he noticed that his voice shot up a half an octave at the end of the question. It wasn't very 'manly'.

But she really had taken him by surprise.

Given Emily's own 'alpha' tendencies . . . she certainly could take control of a room when she wanted to . . . he would not have thought that she'd be into that position.

Not at ALL!

So this was news! Really, REALLY interesting . . . and intriguing . . . news!

"Yes," Emily leaned in to press a kiss to Hotch's lips, "I absolutely do want you to do that." Then she leaned back again with a little smile, "But not tonight. The wall was enough extracurricular." She reached up to brush her fingers through his hair. "That's why I think we can have more fun upstairs in a nice bed."

Though she wasn't in the habit of allowing herself to be bent over and screwed from behind, it wasn't that she didn't enjoy it. In fact it was quite the opposite. When the person was just right, and the height differential was just right, and the _motion_ was just right, the physical pleasure was . . . she bit her lip . . . exquisite.

So the problem . . . and it wasn't at all a little one . . . was that she rarely had enough established 'emotional' trust with her partners, to even consider allowing that activity to be put on the table. Though she was fairly liberal when it came to playing what could amount to 'sexual twister,' her own control issues generally precluded anything being proposed (or agreed to) that she couldn't shut down immediately if she started to get uncomfortable.

And she was not above a swift right hook if it came down to that.

Fortunately it had never (thank God) come down to that. The last man she'd had to kick out of her bed, was Agent Brooks with his creepy assed serial killer foreplay. But the point was, any position that she previously allowed herself to be put into, she had known that she _could_ have retaken control if things had somehow gone completely off the rails.

But for a man to take her from behind . . . once she was pinned . . . she'd be helpless to do anything but let it go to the end.

Which was . . . admittedly . . . part of the allure.

But also the reason that on those rare occasions that she HAD allowed it, that it had been in an established (trusted) relationship. To date, that tally of partners came up to three.

Sully was the last one.

But she and Hotch . . . though new to conjoining parts . . . had a LONG established relationship. And her trust in him was unique in its totality. Even far and above what she'd held for Sully.

They'd never worked together in the field.

And knowing just where Hotch would be hitting her with each hard . . . she leaned forward to bite down on his lip . . . _penetrating_, thrust, had merits that could not be denied. And _would_ not . . . she started dry humping him again . . . be denied.

They'd just do it next time.

Though she realized by chewing on his lip, while wriggling on his erection . . . she'd gotten kind of worked up there for a minute at the visuals . . . she might have been sending a bit of a 'mixed' signal to him about stopping.

Oops.

And just as she felt his fingertips brushing against her pubic hair . . . she bounced backwards off his lap, and out of reach.

His jaw dropped.

"What the HELL, Emily?!" Hotch sputtered in disbelief at her now sitting on the far cushion, "kind of sending mixed signals here!"

"I know Aaron," she responded with a contrite pout, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to tease. But if those fingers got to where they wanted to go, then we both know what would have happened next."

"Um, intercourse would have actually BEGUN by now?" Hotch asked with a bitter scowl as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, his erection now poking out of his shorts.

First she licks his nipple and rides him like a freaking hobby horse, and THEN she puts the brakes on him fingering her! THEN she tells him she wants to be FUCKED from behind(!) right before she starts devouring his mouth and grinding him into a PAINFUL erection! But when he FINALLY makes a move after the most explicit, "GO! GO! GO!" signals he'd ever received, she leaps off him like she's a virgin riding bareback at the prison rodeo!?

SERIOUSLY, he had forgotten how mystically INSANE a woman's thought processes could BE!

"Yes," Emily agreed with a nod, ignoring Hotch's cranky tone to swing her legs around and down to the carpet, "exactly. Intercourse would have begun. And then, just like I said before, we'd end up contorting all over the place rather than simply going upstairs to enjoy my nice big soft bed with the nice clean super comfy soft sheets, that I put on _specifically,_" she turned to give him a little smile,_ "_for your visit tonight."

"So," she reached down and gave a hearty tug on his package, "up and at 'em mister. Wipe off that frowny face. I want to go play with my new toy here," she stroked her thumb over the sensitive tip poking out of the plaid material, "because I've got a list of fun stuff I want to do with it, and we've barely crossed two items off the list."

Though his teeth were now clenched at Emily's continued caress . . . the woman's ability to drive him to the sexual nuthouse was becoming UNSURPASSED! . . . Hotch tried to keep his composure by pretending that nothing was amiss.

"There's a _list_?" He squeaked, "An actual written down," her hand fell away and he was able to suck in a full breath again. "Uh, list of things to," he exhaled, "do?"

Thank GOD she'd taken her hand away! Christ! The woman could throw him off his game like nobody else he'd ever met!

"Yep," Emily nodded, "it's in my lock drawer next to my bed. Just some stuff I've been thinking about, stuff that I haven't done in a long time. "Stuff," she continued with a smirk, while tugging on his arm to get him off the couch, "that I noticed last week that you were REALLY good at, and I wanted you to be really good at again."

Oral was a big one. Hotch was like 'Win a Major Award' good at that! But it wasn't _just_ that he went down . . . though not all men did . . . it was his own little special 'technique' that had her damn near climbing off the walls.

She hadn't been able to walk when he was done.

Though Emily was clearly trying to get him off the couch, Hotch stayed where he was. Partly because his lower half was still tingling from her touch . . . he wanted to give things a moment to settle down or activities would go entirely too fast once they got upstairs . . . but also, because he was thinking. His brain was ticking back through his memories of their previous sexual encounters.

There had been five.

Well, six if he counted what happened before they got into the shower that last morning. And given that he'd had Emily spastically screaming . . . while comparing him to a god, thank you very much . . . _and_ he'd eventually needed to carry her into the bathroom because she was so physically spent, he was thinking that one did indeed "count."

And was probably an item on her list of activities that she'd like to repeat.

He'd like to repeat that one himself. Because he too had a list of his favorite activities, and that one was most definitely on his list. And unfortunately . . . before Emily had quite literally climbed into his lap . . . his list had been getting more than a little dusty.

There were things on there that he hadn't done in a very LONG time!

But given his year of involuntary celibacy . . . aka his ONLY partner dropkicking him to the curb without so much as a verbal goodbye, let alone a final pity fuck . . . sexual frustration had become a regular part of his life.

But no longer.

With Emily . . . and her 'what the hell, let's give it a go' enthusiasm to every sexual request he'd made so far . . . he'd realized that not only did he now have a 'regular' partner again, but also one who was open minded.

And flexible.

And flexibility had been key to more than a few of the moves that they'd tried out the week before. And thinking back on Emily's reaction to a few of them . . . verbal and otherwise . . . his lip quirked up.

His gaze shifted up to hers.

"Pinwheel on the list?"

She smirked.

"And sidewinder." Then her expression softened, and she gave him a shy smile, "but I really liked that belly thing too. I'd like to work that one in regularly, if you don't mind."

The first two moves had felt amazing, but that last one, where they were joined with him cradling her close and pressing little butterfly kisses along her abdomen, it was more that it made her feel happy.

It wasn't sex . . . it was making love.

And there was a difference.

Hotch's eyebrow inched up as he climbed off the couch.

"_Mind?"_ He asked with an incredulous eye roll when he came up in front of her. "You think that I might MIND having sex with you? Like it was a chore? Under what circumstances exactly," he continued with a wrinkled brow, while backing her towards the stairs, "do you envision that ludicrous scenario happening, Emily?"

Apparently she wasn't familiar with how the male brain . . . or any other body part . . . worked. Sex was not a chore . . . it was a life goal. And any man who had EVER seen the woman in front of him naked, would agree, anything that she wanted him to do to her, ANYTHING, was going to get a HUGE thumbs up!

And now seeing Emily's eyes start to twinkle as her mouth began to quiver, he gave her another good natured eye roll. His earlier sexual frustration now forgotten, he leaned down to give her a soft kiss.

"Ridiculous woman," he murmured against her lips. And when she started to giggle, his eyes crinkled as he pulled back and tucked her to his chest.

After a tight squeeze and another kiss . . . this one to the temple . . . he surprised her with an unexpected hoist off the ground.

After all this sexual position talk, his lower half was now getting VERY anxious to get down to business!

And though he was quite sure that Emily's lower half was just as anxious, apparently she hadn't anticipated him potentially throwing her over his shoulder.

Because finding herself pitched upside down . . . with her arms dangling and her butt in the air . . . resulted in an actual yelp of surprise from her. The sound was so high pitched . . . and girly . . . that he nearly laughed out loud.

Yet another . . . wonderful . . . incarnation of the Bad Ass Supervisory Special Agent Prentiss.

"Hey!" She squealed with a smack to his butt, "I didn't order a taxi! I wasn't done yet my vertical snuggling!"

"Sorry, no more snuggling," he responded seriously . . . though his lips were twitching out of her sight, "I have chores to do."

"Ah, I see," she half laughed half snorted, "you have chores! And does this hoist mean that I am not allowed to walk upstairs on _chore_ night?! Because this is the second time tonight you've carried me to the bedroom."

It was cute . . . and actually kind of sweet . . . but definitely unexpected.

"No," Hotch shook his head as he started up the stairs, "no walking. I've got plans, and you need to save your strength."

And with that he gave her bottom a light tap while continuing up to her bedroom.

Emily's continuous giggling was the musical accompaniment all along the way.

* * *

_A/N 2: Yes, you will get a bird's eye view of Hotch performing his 'special' chores. That's up next, plus more of that bonding and cuddly crap that keeps getting in the way of all the hot sex ;)_

_If you read Second Chances, you'll notice some allusions to activities from their first night together in that world. As always with these things, that was intentional. Sting theory, exact same people, one thing changes, different universes spin off :)_

_And if you were wondering about creepy Agent Brooks, a reminder that is also a tale from the larger Girl'verse. You can brush up on the details over in "Making Spirits Bright."_

_Thanks for all the kind notes so far :) And there will be more up this weekend! Who knows? Maybe we'll actually bang through this one to completion in a reasonable time frame! Ha, ha! Just kidding! :)  
_


	4. Possession and Control

**Author's Note**: This was supposed to be the conclusion of their evening, but I couldn't finish proofing. And per usual, I figured you'd want what I could give you now rather than waiting until later for more. So here you go.

Warning, this is very much a XXX chapter so definitely NSFW/S! Again, if it gets deleted, you can follow it over on my personal site below.

* * *

**Other Accounts:**

_****PERSONAL WEBSITE: www . fractured-reality . com**_

_I have a new website. If interested, you can read more about it (and my future on FF . net) on my Tumblr listed below. It's the June 10th note._

_**Twitter: ffsienna27 **__– For story announcements, etc. If the alerts, (or the site), are down, this is a backup to find out what's going on for postings. There's also random randomness that is my brain._

_**Tumblr: sienna27 **__– More randomness._

_**Tumblr: cmfanficprompts **__– Just as the name describes. Jointly run with Kavi Leighanna. _

* * *

**Possession and Control**

It wasn't until he'd reached her bedroom again, that Hotch slipped Emily back down over his shoulder.

Though she still didn't actually make it all the way down to the floor.

Instead he made a gentle deposit on the end of the bed. And with her face slightly reddened from being tipped upside down, Emily shot him a cocky smirk.

"Next time I'm going to do that to you."

"HA!" Hotch barked a laugh even while he was leaning down to slide the robe from her shoulder, "I would LOVE to see you try it!"

Emily's smirk morphed to a tiny frown as she began to consider their relative upper body strength . . . and that's when Hotch began to strip her naked.

Her sleeves were coming off, and her arms were gently being turned this way and that. It was clear that he needed no assistance from her to get this job done. Which was fortunate.

Because she was thinking.

"Well," her jaw twisted as Hotch lifted her slightly off the bed to pull the plaid material out from under her, "okay, maybe not that _exactly_," her robe went flying over his shoulder, "but I can do stuff. You know I can pin the guys in the gym. Even Morgan. So all right," she scowled slightly, "_maybe_ it's been a few months since the last time I got him down on the mat, but I've done it more than once, so it definitely counts. And if I could do that to him, I could maybe do it to you too."

Her last words came just as Hotch slid his hands under her ass. He was shifting her up to the angle he wanted on the mattress.

"Lean back please, Emily."

His words were a husky whisper as his hands moved along her lower body. And even with part of her brain still focusing on how she'd do in a strength match up with Hotch . . . though admittedly the idea of actually _pinning_ him to the mat was an almost laughable pipe dream . . . Emily couldn't have been more aware of his physical touch in that moment.

He was caressing her inner thighs, gently easing her legs apart.

And feeling that tingle of anticipation, and lust, down low in her belly . . . they were about to get to the good stuff . . . she immediately complied with his request.

She would have done just about anything he's asked her to do right then. And when she leaned back, the little white baby doll bunched up above her waist and her fingers began to tap an anxious rhythm on her bare stomach. Then his hands slid even higher, forming a V at the top of her thighs. His thumbs were brushing lightly against her neat little patch of curls.

All the while she was staring up at the ceiling . . . and though he was barely touching her . . . she could still feel herself getting wet.

It was anticipation.

"You know," she continued tightly, her voice now strained from the effort to pretend like he didn't have total control of her being in that moment, "I'm sure that if I _wanted_ to, I could knock you offff . . ."

The rest of her sentence was lost in a gasp when Hotch simultaneously lifted her up, and his tongue slipped into her soft folds.

JESUS!

Her hips jerked, her fists clenched, and her eyes snapped shut.

"God _damn!_" She hissed as his tongue began swirling back and forth, slowly licking her entire length.

Just because she'd known it was coming, it didn't mean that she'd been ready for it. Because there was no way to BE ready for it! Though sex with Hotch was becoming a routine activity, the activity itself was not at ALL routine.

He was way too good for that.

Like now . . . she bit down hard on her lip . . . he was nuzzling, and tasting, and sucking. Always knowing just when to move on to the next thing.

And just when to go back to the first.

His technique was unparalleled. She started to moan. He was stimulating every part of her, to the point that her body actually began to quiver beneath his touch.

And though part of her knew that the quivering wasn't just from the physiological reaction to his touch . . . not that that could be be denied . . . but also psychological as well. Because she knew just what would be happening next. Because this was how it had started last week.

Last week then he robbed her of the ability to WALK!

And now, if all went well . . . his tongue slipped inside her . . . the same thing would be happening to her tonight. And things weren't just going well at that moment, they were going fucking GREAT! The pleasure was beginning to build, her breath was starting to catch . . . and then it happened.

His focus shifted.

Suddenly it became all about her clit. And as had happened the week before . . . he timed it just right . . . and she nearly lost her fucking mind.

Her arousal was complete when he began his feast. He was alternating licking around the little nub, and sucking it between his lips like tiny lollypop. And after a few minutes of that . . . with her fingers now clenching the sheets as she panted and writhed up against him . . . he moved on to a different approach. First another bout of full length licking and swirling . . . and then she felt his tongue dipping in deeper.

And then it slipped back inside her.

She lost her breath completely. Her body was so keyed up by then, that she scrambled to hold him in place. Her fingers tangling in his hair.

Now he was hitting everything JUST perfectly!

His thumb took over stroking her clit, while his tongue began a light and feathery thrust that was driving her right over the edge. She was grinding into him. Her pants of "oh God, oh God, oh God," were coming faster and faster and faster. She was right on the edge, she could feel it, it was coming . . . she gasped . . . COMING!

And then suddenly he was gone.

He stopped.

Before she could even process that inconceivable loss of touch, Hotch lifted his head and was looking down at her with a raised eyebrow.

"So what is it exactly that you think you're going to do to me?" He asked with a lick of his lips as he stood up.

Her body was frozen, her legs still spread wide when she blinked up at him in shock.

_WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS SHIT?!_

"WHY THE HELL ARE YOU STOPPING?!" She howled at him with a bounce of her hips, her palms slapping furiously down onto the bed, "KEEP GOING!"

Hotch's lip quirked up.

"But I asked you a question," he leaned down to kiss her nose. "What is it exactly that you think you're going to do to me?"

Yes, maybe he was being a little bit jerky teasing her this way, but . . . he straightened up to slip off his boxers, his erection immediately popping out . . . he'd be making it up to her in a moment. And he would be making it up to her four or five times.

At least.

But _she_ was the one that had wanted to talk . . . he kicked his boxers behind him . . . and she was the one that thought she could get the upper hand in a physical encounter. He was just letting her make her argument.

He just wanted to see how persuasive she'd be under the circumstances.

Bug eyed, Emily stared up in disbelief, her brain truly incapable of following along with the words that Hotch had just spoken aloud.

But then she got it. And she got what he was doing.

Busting her balls.

Busting her balls INSTEAD of letting her FINISH her mind blowing ORGASM!

"YOU ASSHOLE!" She yelled, her knees locking together while she whipped a pillow at him, "YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME FINISH!"

Hotch ducked . . . and laughed.

She froze again, her brow now knitting together in both anger and confusion.

"So you're just joking?" she huffed, the anger still clear in her voice while her arms crossed right below her breasts, "well, I don't get why you would you be so MEAN to me. That wasn't nice."

Hotch leaned in again, his lips curved in a soft smile while he hovered over her . . . both his mouth and his now fully exposed erection tantalizingly out of her reach.

And make no mistake, she WAS pissed at him for stopping, joke or no joke it wasn't cool, but she still wanted him. She wanted him more than she'd wanted any man in a very long time.

And that scared the hell out of her.

"You think I'm being mean to you," Hotch's voice was sympathetic as his hand slid down, sliding her legs apart again. He could feel her moist curls beneath his fingers, "really?"

The intimacy of his touch had the desired effect, Emily's expression morphed from one of anger, to one entirely of confusion. It was clear that she had no idea what he was doing. Then she pouted.

"You stopped before I was done. Why would you do that to me? I wouldn't do that to you."

"Who I said I was stopping?" Hotch asked with a serious eyebrow, his fingers slowly slipping down from the wet curls, and into that hidden warmth.

Her eyes snapped back up to his, and seeing the desire and confusion warring on her pretty face, one of Hotch's dimples slipped out.

"That was just the pre-show. Now we're getting to the big game."

He began feeling along, gently touching and stroking . . . watching Emily's teeth begin to dig into her lip. And with one hand on her hip, the other hand slipped further back and deeper in, two of his fingers disappearing. The soft caresses continued, until he reached that one special place.

The one that he'd discovered consistently made her lose control.

And he knew that he had reached her Achilles by the tensing of her muscles, and the immediate loss of breath. He stroked his middle finger back and forth over the sweet spot.

"You see," he whispered, his expression softening when he leaned up further to kiss the little pout that persisted still, "we're not done."

His touch was slow and steady, back and forth, setting the rhythm he knew she liked. It wasn't long before her hips began to rock.

Her muscles were clenching around his fingers.

It was clear that her orgasm was beginning to build again . . . and he was watching her face the whole time. And though he could see that one of her magnificent breasts had slipped out of the little nightgown, unfortunately . . . even if they had become his favorite secondary playground . . . they couldn't be the current focus of his attention.

He only had the one set of lips, and nipple sucking wasn't going to make her come like he wanted her to come. And given his momentary pause in activities, he REALLY had to make this one count!

Fortunately though, as he spread her legs further apart, her knees falling to the sides, he knew that things were building to a nice crest.

Her breathing was becoming more become erratic, her fists were clenched, and one little droplet of sweat had formed by her temple. And of course her hips were continuing that steady push up and against his hand.

All things considered . . . Hotch felt a little burst of male pride . . . he was quite sure that Emily was about two minutes away from screaming his name.

Although . . . his brow inched up slightly when he noticed one thing out of order . . . her arms remained crossed at her chest. That was odd.

She should have relaxed.

And that was also when he noticed the tiny furrow also still remained in the center of her forehead.

And realizing what she was doing . . . continuing her attempt to stay cranky for his gentle teasing WHILE actually simultaneously having an orgasm . . . Hotch's mouth began to quiver in amusement.

Sometimes she was beyond adorable.

"It seems that you're still a little bit irritated with me," he pointed out softly, still caressing that one spot, while trying to keep from laughing at her ridiculous stance, "so would you prefer that I stopped?"

Before she answered Hotch, Emily tried to regulate her breathing. That was admittedly quite hard to do with him fingered her to the brink.

But for dignity's sake . . . an attempt to regain some . . . she gave it the old college try.

"Well," she sucked in a shallow breath, "seeing as you're already busy down there, you might, uh," she swallowed as his fingers pressed down with a little more pressure, "you might as well, um," she bit back a moan, "finish, um . . ." she gasped, "up."

Yep . . . his eyes crinkled . . . adorable. And as her reward for being just that stubborn that she would attempt to have a CRANKY _orgasm(!) _. . . though he wasn't even sure how such a thing was possible . . . again he leaned up to press a soft kiss to her mouth.

"You know you'd have more fun if you stopped trying to stay mad at me," he whispered against her lips. And when he leaned back to see her expression had softened, he winked.

"That's my girl. Now just remember to breathe."

Then he dropped back down below her waist. And with his fingers continuing on with the slow and steady that always wins the race . . . he went in to finish what he'd started before she'd called him an asshole.

He sucked her clit back into his mouth.

Fortunately Emily did remember to breathe then . . . though she didn't do it very well. With a shallow gasp, her whole lower body bucked up.

"Oh . . . my . . . God."

The words were barely audible, but there was no denying the physical response of her body. She pushed herself up, driving his fingers deeper.

Her panting was out of control then.

That's when he felt the changes beginning to happen in her body . . . little tremors. So he quickly pulled back . . . though that time just for a split second . . . to suck in a deep breath.

Time for the big finale!

And a few minutes later the, "oh God, oh God, oh God" panting had become her mantra. She was too far gone by then to keep up even a pretense of lingering annoyance with him.

Her legs were hooked over his shoulders and her hips were rocking uncontrollably as she writhed against his face.

She was again holding him in place.

And still he continued to play her body like a violin. The suction and the swirls and the licking . . . this little valley was all his to play with, and he was having almost as much fun with his explorations as she was with his exploring.

And then her heels dug into his back.

"OH FUUUCK! OH GOD AARON! OH GOD!"

She bit down a scream. And then there was nothing but panting and shaking . . . and the shaking didn't stop. It was full body tremor that went on and on, hips to toes, and the sounds she was making were indescribable.

Watching her come was so hot that he nearly blew his own load.

But fortunately his self-control . . . and his personal _sexual_ control . . . were points of particular pride with him. So though his balls were now starting to bellow at him in frustration, Hotch kept his own body from doing much more than a few dry air humps while her shudders slowly began to subside.

Her stifled screams becoming voiceless gasps for air.

It took a few more minutes before she was completely done. And God did he enjoy that. Knowing that the pleasure he gave her wasn't momentary, or fleeting. He could keep it going on . . . he rubbed his nose into her, in an intimate Eskimo kiss . . . and on.

Then finally she stopped.

And as he felt her hips relax, and her body stop moving, he slide his fingers out. But still he kept her knees up and legs parted . . . though they were down now on the bed . . . while he moved back in to gently clean her up.

Though most men would consider that an unnecessary step, he wasn't most men. That sweet juice that she'd spilled, she'd spilled it because of him. Because of what he'd done.

It was his.

And for a man who had been wandering in the desert for a year, he wasn't going to waste a drop of what she was giving him now.

And once that was done . . . and feeling Emily's hips again trembling, he knew that she was enjoying the 'after show' as well . . . he moved further down, focusing his attention in on her inner thighs.

And then from above . . . as he was making one final swirl . . . he heard a little sigh. It was happy.

And contented.

"You're so good at that, Aaron."

Hotch lifted his head to see that the breast that had slipped out of the little nightgown . . . Emily was now playing with it, pinching her nipple.

His hips gave another involuntary jerk . . . it was definitely time for him to get in on the action.

His gaze shifted from those breasts he was growing to adore, and up to her beautiful face. The confusion and anger were gone. Now her face was flushed, her expression a mixture of amusement, and wanton desire.

"But that doesn't mean that I'm not still mad at you for teasing me," she continued while shooting him another pout, "just because you made it up to me, doesn't mean you should have stopped before."

Though she was no longer really angry with him . . . it was impossible to BE angry with somebody who could you make you see entire constellations simply with his touch . . . she wanted to avoid a repeat of that trick down the road.

Hotch's eyes crinkled slightly, but then he considered her words and his expression softened.

"No," he whispered back, his fingertips lightly pressing into her side, "maybe I shouldn't have stopped before. But," his expression lightened, "I am quite sure that by the time I'm done making it up to you, I will be completely forgiven for that momentary pause."

"So cocky," she murmured with a little smirk, even as she opened her arms for him to come up to her. "Now come here," she made a smooching sound, "I want a kiss."

Though missionary wasn't Hotch's plan for this performance, he too wanted the kiss. Just because they weren't in love, it didn't mean that he didn't enjoy that act as a simple expression of affection.

And his affection for her was great.

So after he'd lifted Emily's hips to shift her further up on the mattress . . . he needed to give himself more room on the bed . . . he climbed up and hovered over her again. He was leaning forward, straddling her thighs, the tip of his shaft brushing over her curls.

Her eyes crinkled.

"You better have brought the goods there buddy," she smirked as he leaned in for the kiss and her arms slipped up around his neck to pull him down. She liked having him on top of her.

She felt safe.

"Oh don't you worry about my goods," he murmured confidently against her lips, his shaft now rubbing against her stomach, "I've got a whole bag of tricks left."

And with that he pulled back, a faint smile touching his lips . . . though his eyes were dark with desire.

"Ready for round two?"

Her lip quirked up.

"Yep," she leaned up smack another quick kiss on his lips, "ready when you are pal."

Hotch winked as he reached for a pillow. Then placed his hands on her hips again, lifting them up so he could slide first the one pillow . . . and then another . . . underneath her.

Two pillows was a new approach for them, and he could see that Emily was intrigued by his decision. But that height elevated her pelvis enough that he knew they were in for a whole new experience from their experiments the week before. And by the little anticipatory smile spreading across her face, he knew Emily was excited to try the new angle. It had been some years since he'd last tried it himself.

Long before Haley got pregnant.

"Legs up," he ordered seriously while pushing himself back and to his knees, "time to lock and load Agent Prentiss."

With a chuckle, she lifted her legs up and over his shoulders once more.

Then her mouth twisted in a little frown.

"But I guess no fun nipple stuff this time, huh?" She asked while slipping her other breast out of the little lacy enclosure.

She did so enjoy his nipple stuff. It wasn't at all the same playing with them herself.

Hotch's nose wrinkled as he looked down at her.

"Sorry," he murmured while pressing a kiss to first one . . . and then the other . . . perfectly pink and pert little nipple. "But that might be kind of difficult to do," he continued mumbling while licking around her areola, "and really focus on the other thing I had in mind. But I promise," his words became clearer when he suddenly pushed back to line up himself up at her warm entrance, "I'll make that up to you too."

Next time, he'd let her get on top for a while.

It would keep his hands free.

"Okay," she gave him a soft smile, feeling his breasts tingling from his brief touch, "I'll keep you to that."

Then she caught his hands, tangling their fingers . . . and with her tiny nod, he began to gently ease himself into her.

His breath immediately caught just as she bit down on her lip.

He was making sure to go slow, not only because it felt that much better . . . she was so hot and tight it was almost as intense as her blow job earlier . . . but also he wanted to be careful in case she still needed to adjust.

Two fingers were not nearly the same girth as a fully erect penis.

And he'd gone more than halfway in . . . for him that was probably more than four inches that had disappeared . . . when he saw Emily's lower lip pop out. Then she began to wriggle up against him.

"All the way," she pushed up again, taking him another half inch, "I want you inside me. I'm ready. Do it fast."

"Okay," he whispered, "if you're sure. Here we go." Then he gave one perfectly aligned . . . almost violent . . . thrust, burying himself balls deep, as far as he could go.

Her nails dug into the backs of his hands.

"Good job," she gasped. "Now do it again."

"Hold tight," he hissed while sliding back . . . and then he slammed into her again.

She moaned.

"Again."

So he went again. And she moaned again . . . and he pounded in. It was a rhythmic dance . . . her moans, his thrusts. Over . . . and over.

And over.

Going just as hard, and just as deep . . . all the way to the hilt . . . every time he entered her. The steeper angle was what made it possible. And Emily . . . the sweat started trickling down his back . . . God love her, she was making every stroke last. Because each time he went in, she pushed up to meet him . . . and her muscles locked down around him.

And she squeezed.

So the glide out was an even tighter ride than the one going in.

The friction was incredible. They were both panting and gasping. And when Emily could suck in enough oxygen, all Hotch could hear was her breathless urging for him to "fuck me harder." It had taken the place of her usual "oh Gods."

But this new mantra . . . he grunted and slammed into her again . . . was one that he could build a religion around! When it came to Emily, he was discovering that he would do basically anything that she asked him to do. That's how they ended up with the massage last week.

That's how they ended up in bed.

And so he was starting to wonder exactly how far he would really go for her . . . if there was anything he wouldn't do.

Just then he felt her whole body jerk up against his . . . and then the vibrations began to rocket through her uterus.

"OH GOD! OH GOD! IT'S HAPPENING!" Emily bit down a scream as she reached up, trying to pull him closer. "COME WITH ME AARON!"

Her words were a plea, and fortunately . . . given his realization of a moment before . . . he realized that he wasn't going to deny her this wish. Because he too could feel the wave rising higher and higher, his balls were tightening, his breathing was becoming erratic . . . he wasn't going to last much longer. He slid into her again.

And then she lost all control.

She was screaming and gasping as she came, her fingers clutching the sheets and her body bucking up over and over. She was like a hell cat.

_His_, hell cat.

And feeling the last of his own control starting to rip away, he sucked in as deep a breath as he could manage, pulled back . . . and slammed back into her again.

And again.

And again.

The sweat was now pouring off of him, the pleasure he was feeling indescribable. It wasn't only his own orgasm rising, but Emily's that was consuming him as well.

Her entire body was shaking, the blush traveling up her belly to her chest and face. It left her with a light pink glow. She was BEYOND gorgeous.

And that was for him too.

Just then she moved beyond the screams that he was growing to love so much. Now her eyes were watering and she was just gasping for air, her little mewling sounds a diametric counter to his masculine grunts and pants.

She was his yin.

"Keep going," she gasped, her hands coming up to yank on the rock hard tips of her nipples, "please, just keep hitting that saaaam . . . OH GOD!"

Her words were lost when her back arched for a second time.

"JESUS CHRIST!"

Just as she swore . . . and locked down completely around him . . . Hotch finally let go.

"FUUUCK!"

Once . . . twice . . . he could feel the explosion spilling out with each, now wobbily and shaking, thrust. The pleasure was washing over him, and he was coming so hard that he'd lost all control. The thrusts continued . . . because he just couldn't STOP! But sex with Emily was like that.

Out of this world.

"Come for me Aaron!" she cried, her voice rasping as she thrust up against him, "come for me!"

He sucked in another breath . . . his fingers digging into her slick hips, and hers again grasping frantically for a hold on the sweaty sheets . . . and with one final . . . gasping . . . shudder, he was done. There was nothing left. She'd taken everything that he had to give.

And a little bit more.

For a moment they were still, their ragged breaths the only sounds in the room. And then Emily gave him a sleepy grin right before she purred, "that's my guy."

"Couldn't have done it without you," he huffed back, his voice still coming out half in a pant as her legs fell from his shoulders.

Just as he went to reach for her . . . he really wanted another kiss, that was his only complaint with that position, no kissing . . . he got a spasm in his thigh. And at the angle he was, and the workout he'd just had, he went down like a bag of rocks, almost collapsing on her chest.

Fortunately he caught himself just before he crushed her.

With a pained grunt, his hands landed on either side of her head.

"Sorry," he hissed, while trying to push himself back up to a more dignified (manly) position, "Charlie Horse."

She didn't seem to care.

"It's okay hon," she whispered breathlessly while wrapping her long legs around his waist, squeezing him tight. "I'm consistently amazed that you can hold out as long as you do."

Then her arms came up to wrap around his neck, and she leaned in to give him one, long . . . soft . . . kiss.

It was enough to distract him from his aching thigh.

And when the kiss was done, she pulled him into a hug. Her arms around his chest, her legs wrapped around his waist.

His head was resting on her shoulder, his eyes screwed shut as he tried to will that little knot in his muscle to go away. Because he needed to get her out of the wet spot . . . but he also needed his leg to stop aching.

And he needed the second to happen before he could address the issue of the first.

But once he felt like he could again play alpha dog . . . _without_ getting another stabbing pain in his muscle . . . he rolled to the side and onto his back.

Up Emily came with him, off the sticky pillows and sweaty sheets, both of them now out of the mess.

She snuggled in closer, burying her face in the curve of his throat, her hands palming his nipples while she squeezed her thighs tightly around his torso. Her desire to cuddle was something he was growing to enjoy.

A lot.

It was a different way of connecting. And after he'd pulled up a blanket from the floor and covered them up, is hand fell to rest on her bottom. His thumb was stroking along the soft skin as he bit back a yawn.

He was fucking wiped.

"That was amazing," she mumbled against his skin, "maybe even better than downstairs. Though I actually wouldn't have thought that was possible."

Hotch's eyes crinkled faintly, too tired really to do much else.

"So now I'm all forgiven now," he asked softly, his fingertips tapping on her left cheek, "right?"

"Well," she murmured, "you _were_ still pretty mean to me. Getting me all worked up, and then stopping like that before I was totally done."

Clearly hearing the pout, even if he couldn't see it, Hotch's lips curved in a sleepy smile.

Orgasms could fix a lot . . . he palmed her smooth, beautifully shaped ass, with both hands . . . but they didn't fix everything. Which meant that it was time for a proper apology.

It was the only way to make it right.

"I'm sorry," he whispered with a little kiss to her sweaty temple, "I was just teasing you, but you're right, it wasn't a very nice thing to do." He moved one of his arms up then to wrap tightly around his waist, "and I promise that I won't do it again."

One thing that married life had taught him, no matter how innocently a comment, or an act, might have been intended, if the woman brought the 'incident' up for a second time, then it was indeed an 'incident.' One that was far from being concluded.

Not until a full apology had been made.

And also though . . . his nose wrinkled slightly as he thought back to the look on her face when he first pulled back . . . she did have a point.

He had kind of been a dick.

Emily lifted her head from Hotch's chest.

"Okay," her lip quirked up and their eyes caught, "with that verbal admission of guilt, and that thing where you gave me three mind blowing orgasms right in a row, we'll now consider the matter closed."

Seeing him mouth the words, 'thank you,' right before he shot her a drowsy wink, she knew that he was on the verge of passing out. But that wasn't a surprise. The man was a MACHINE! And absolutely, one hundred percent, knew how to apologize in style.

But she still wanted to hear the words too.

Not because she was still upset with him . . . slightly peeved maybe at the principle of it, that was NOT cool(!) . . . but more now because for those few minutes there when he'd stopped, he had won that little exchange with her. And that was a precedent that could not stand.

But now he'd officially apologized, which meant that she had evened things out again.

Their karmic balance had been restored.

Just then she heard his soft snoring . . . from her experience, he wasn't a snorer, but right now his head was propped up at an odd angle . . . and she knew that he'd definitely passed out.

Her brow crinkled faintly as she pushed herself up.

"Poor Aaron," she murmured with a kiss to his brow, "you must be so tired."

She was too . . . these encounters with Hotch were infinitely better than any workout that she'd ever have at the gym . . . but clearly of the two of them, he was the one that had done most of the heavy lifting for the last hour. Seriously, if he didn't possess basically zero body fat . . . and enough musculature strength to dead lift probably twice his personal weight . . . it was likely that he would have collapsed long before that cramp had hit his thigh.

So in sympathy and gratitude for him bringing them both to that amazing place, and back again, she shifted back and down under the blankets to gently rub his sore hamstring.

She could tell it was still bothering him by the tension in the muscle.

But after a few minutes of her kneading that hard knot, she heard him sigh in his sleep. And then she heard him murmur her name, and she paused for a moment as a little flutter of butterflies floated through her stomach.

He was dreaming about her.

And she could tell from his tone that it was a happy dream. Because he'd just sighed again, and again murmured her name. His voice soft and pleading . . . he was calling out for her. Suddenly she desperately wanted to see if she could make her presence known to him there.

Off in his dreams.

So she tried to find a place for herself. A place where he would know that she was with him.

And that she cared about him.

She started with a soft kiss on his inner thigh, before shifting to place one on the little patch of hair on his lower pelvis. Then a swirl of her tongue in his belly button.

At that she felt his hips shift and a soft moan escape his lips.

And though she wanted to go back down and exercise her tongue again . . . this time by sucking his tip into her mouth . . . she knew that would be too much. He wasn't awake, so it wouldn't be right.

Particularly given her awareness of his still shifting comfort level with fellatio.

So instead of giving him the best sex dream of his life, she continued with her gentle . . . affectionate . . . kisses. Slowly, she crawled her way back up, her nipples brushing against his skin while she left a breadcrumb for each inch that she moved up his body.

A lick on that little dip of his breastbone. Another kiss on his chest . . . that one right over his heart . . . a gentle suck on his left nipple. A hard lick of his right.

And finally one last kiss on his lips.

The whole time she was moving up his body, he was making these soft little sounds. Sighs and moans, her name as a quiet murmur. And given that she was straddling his hips, she could feel that his penis was no longer as nearly flaccid as it was when she'd left it.

It wouldn't take much to make it rock hard again.

But again . . . she sighed and dropped her head to his shoulder . . . it just wasn't right to do it when he wasn't awake. A few little kisses were one thing, _that_ was something else. Given that they were now in a VERY active sexual relationship, she would be perfectly fine with him leaving a few chaste kisses on her girl parts post coitus.

But what she would NOT be fine with was to wake up to find him on top of her pounding away.

Or course she knew that he would never in a million years do that. Not unless she gave him explicit permission to give her such an 'intimate' a wake-up call. Though she really doubted . . . no matter how committed the relationship . . . that she ever would actually tell _any_ man that would be okay.

She certainly hadn't allowed it to date.

But that's because muscles needed to adjust and internal lubrication needed to be had. And those were factors that she needed to determine for herself before she allowed penetration by a fully erect member.

Especially if she was talking about a fully erect member the size of Hotch's.

And just thinking about its heat and length as it had moved in and out . . . especially as it was again brushing so insistently against her skin . . . was enough to get her libido racing again. But again . . . she squeezed her thighs together, hoping to make a little friction . . . she was also thinking that she was so fucking horny because her period was due any day now.

_Crap . . . she took a few deep breaths . . . get it together Em. He's asleep, and he's exhausted, and so are you. So you need to table this little nympho routine for another day._

But fortunately that little bit of friction . . . and applying some mental discipline . . . was enough to calm her hormones.

So with a sigh she tugged the blankets up over her shoulders. Then she cuddled in close around his body, her thighs straddling his torso while she tucked her head in the curve of his neck.

Then his hand unexpectedly curled around her ankle.

Her lip quirked up . . . he did know she was there.

Right before she closed her eyes, Emily made a mental note to tell him about the sleep kissing when they woke up. They really should get these ground rules about 'sleep touching' sorted out now. Because who knows . . . she yawned . . . maybe he actually _would_ have wanted her to slip back under the covers and give him the best sex dream of his life.

Could have been fun for both of them.

Oh well . . . she nuzzled his throat . . . there was always tomorrow.

* * *

A/N 2: _I warned you it was a triple XXX! But in the original incarnation (with the additional 17 pages still coming) the sex was just an element, but you have to cut chapter, it gives the chapter a different feel than originally intended. So here, aside from the obvious physicality, the underlying element was them working out their mutual alpha control tendencies, which is something touched on regularly in the main Girl'verse. Hotch's more overt alpha possessiveness, tempered with Emily's softer (though no less effective) means of wrapping him around her little finger. Keeping their karma balanced._

_And yes, Emily does have a LOT of amazing, like once in a lifetime, multiple orgasms! Let's not begrudge her, we should all be so lucky :) But seriously, if I was going to write a story about them getting together to have BAD sex, how many of you would still be here? Exactly. That said, there will be an upcoming chapter where something will happen, and things will not be so great in that respect. You'll have to wait and see ;)_

_The next chapter will be the conclusion of this night (for sure) and then we'll skip ahead a few days. I actually have written a decent chunk of the first MONTH of their relationship, so though I know it feels like we've had a bit of a drag here on posting (that would be my pesky real life intruding on this fake life stuff) I'm not moving forward from scratch. I just need to keep cleaning things up._

_So thank you all for feedback to date, and any feedback in the future. Always appreciated :) _


	5. The Lady Gunslinger & the Widowed Farmer

**Author's Note:** The last portion of their evening. The title will make sense by the end.

* * *

**The Lady Gunslinger and the Widowed Farmer **

Emily's eyes crinkled as she looked at Hotch's reflection in the bathroom mirror, naked, digging into his shaving kit for his toothbrush.

_God, he's so damn CUTE! _

Yes, that was the thought of a fifteen year old girl, but it didn't change the basic truth of the situation. He really was quite adorable. That was a point of fact that Emily had tried to consciously push out of her mind for the past few years.

Since she'd come to work with him.

Prior to that turn of events . . . she began to comb out her wet hair as she stood next to him now brushing his teeth . . . he was just a lingering memory from her youth.

The one that got away.

And he was still technically, 'away' from her, but he was also, again, standing in her bathroom naked. So yeah . . . there was that.

But he . . . they . . . weren't naked at the moment for the same reason that they'd been naked for the majority of the evening.

Now it was because they were fresh out of the shower.

And though it had been a _joint_ shower, it had also been a sex free one. Now anybody who had ever seen a naked, wet and soapy Hotch, might have questioned how it was possible for her to refrain from intercourse when intercourse could have so easily been had. And under any other circumstances, Emily would have been _thrilled _to engage in some shower wall coitus.

But not tonight.

Even though they'd gotten in a solid two hour nap . . . it was now a little after twelve-thirty . . . they were both still pretty physically wiped after their two . . . highly aerobic . . . encounters earlier in the night. But that was totally understandable. It had been a long work week, and they weren't spring chickens.

But also . . . on her part . . . after the break in activities, Emily had woken up feeling a little sore and achy down below. But again, given how intensive their earlier encounters had been, those sensations were totally understandable. And after subtly downing two low dose Motrin while Hotch was mixing them up a box of mac and cheese for a midnight snack, she had felt much better. Basically back to normal really.

But she still didn't want to push her luck.

Her body was telling her enough was enough for tonight, which meant that her vagina was now a penis free zone. She was hoping not to have to _explicitly_ share that development with Hotch . . . she was sure that he would worry that he'd been too rough . . . but fortunately with the dark circles she could see under his eyes, she sincerely doubted that he would be proposing anything more physically stimulating before bed than a good night kiss.

And sure enough, after he'd rinsed his mouth . . . as she caught his eyes in the mirror . . . she saw him give her a faint smile. Then he leaned down to kiss her cheek.

"Thanks for a good night," he murmured against her skin. Then he straightened up, and went back to refilling his shaving kit.

It was clear that he considered the sexual intercourse portion of the evening to be over.

Good. That meant they were both on the same page even if the matter hadn't been explicitly discussed. So with that potential awkwardness avoided, Emily gave her hair a super quick blow dry.

Just enough to take the 'sopping' portion out of the wet.

And after that . . . while Hotch was taking care of his contacts . . . she went about tidying up the still steamy bathroom.

Straightening their towels and picking up the bathmats.

When she turned back from tossing the washcloths in the hamper, she saw Hotch wiping down the vanity and polishing the faucet. Her eyes crinkled.

"You're a good houseguest." She said with a smile as she walked back across the room. He huffed in amusement . . . though his tone was slightly bitter when he spoke.

"Yeah, you might have heard that I've had a lot of practice sharing a bathroom."

Then he closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, "that was uh . . . sorry."

His head dropped down just as she walked up behind him.

"It's fine Aaron," she whispered while wrapping her arms around his chest and leaning her cheek on his back, "it's just fine."

It was the first time that he'd made a direct reference to his married life, and it was clear that he wasn't far enough removed yet from the divorce to speak about it in the abstract.

There was anger there.

But in his position, she'd still be pretty God damn angry too. He'd lost his son.

That was a hurt that was going to stay.

So as she felt the continued tension in his body, she just turned him around in her arms. Then she placed her head on his chest and gave a soft, breathy, sigh.

"We should change the sheets before we go back to bed." She murmured, "I have clean ones in the hall closet."

Given she was quite sure he didn't wish to have a heart to heart on the topic of his failed marriage, it seemed that just moving on to something else, would be the best approach to handle his mood.

And when she felt his hands come up to rest on her bare hips, she was sure that had been the right approach.

"I'll do it," he whispered with a little kiss to her temple, "you find some clothes, you're starting to get goosebumps."

When she tipped her head back, he stared down at her for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Finally something shifted in his eyes, and Emily saw something else there. Something warm and gentle.

It made her heart flutter.

"Thank you," he whispered. And when her eyes crinkled and she murmured back, "no problem" he leaned down, his breath mingling with hers as he pressed their foreheads together.

Then he closed his eyes . . . she did the same.

For a moment they stood there, and though they were still naked . . . and their bodies were pressed together . . . there was really nothing sexual about it. Emily just felt . . . happy.

Content.

And then he let her go.

"I'm going to go find those sheets," he said with a little pat to her arm. And as he walked out the open door, she felt an odd emptiness fill her. Like something had just been taken away.

But she wasn't quite sure what it was.

So she stood there for a second longer, trying to figure out just exactly what her problem was. And then the AC came on, and she suddenly jumped.

Her whole body had broken out in gooseflesh.

Okay, she thought while scampering out the door, maybe Hotch was right about the clothes. And though she hated to ruin the 'fun/sexy' illusion for the evening, she knew that the teeny tiny teddy wasn't going to cut it in the warmth department.

Also though . . . her gaze caught on it crumpled at the end of the bed . . . it had some fluid on it. It certainly hadn't bothered her earlier, but now that they were both nice and clean . . . and the bed was going to be nice and clean . . . she really didn't want to put it back on again.

So she picked it up off the sheets and turned to whip it into the bathroom.

She just missed the hamper.

Then with a shrug she started over to her dresser to find something to wear that would warm her up a bit, but wouldn't totally ruin the whole 'sexy clandestine' element to their little arrangement.

Just before Emily opened her lingerie drawer . . . she was thinking she had a cute little cotton shift that would work . . . something else snagged her attention.

Hotch's work clothes.

The ones he'd worn that day were stacked in a neatly folded pile next to his ready bag. So she went over and picked up his dress shirt. It was pale blue, and when she picked it up . . . and held it to her face . . . she could smell his aftershave, and that masculine smell that was his alone.

It made her smile.

So she slipped first one arm in . . . and then the other, feeling the soft cotton clinging to her curves as she pulled the edges of the material together. The act felt strangely intimate, and Emily again found herself turning her head to take in his lingering scent. Again, her lips curved.

She was getting that same sensation she'd had in the bathroom.

And she had just begun to button the shirt up, when Hotch walked back into the bedroom. He was wearing a clean pair of boxers . . . he must have pulled them before he went out into the hall . . . and carrying a clean set of sheets. They were her blue ones.

She had a feeling that he liked the color blue.

When Hotch saw her standing there, Emily saw him stop short, his head tipping slightly to the side. It was like he was sizing up the situation, trying to figure out what was happening.

Given that the situation was fairly self-explanatory, his reaction made her a little nervous.

"Is it okay?" She asked with a little furrow in her brow, suddenly worried that maybe he would be upset that she'd taken his shirt without asking. Which perhaps, in retrospect, she should have asked first, but it hadn't occurred to her before. After everything that she'd let the man do to her that night . . . not to mention the week before . . . borrowing his clothes for bed, had seemed like a non-issue.

And he must have agreed, because suddenly he smiled . . . and all of her worries were gone.

"Yeah," Hotch responded while shooting her two dimples, "it's very okay."

Then he set about making the bed. And if Emily noticed that there was a little twinkle in his eye every time he looked over at her, she chose not to comment. She just hid her own smile while trying to focus her attention on the tiny buttons.

Hotch had finished with the top sheet, around the same time she finished rolling up his sleeves. And then she went over to help him with the blankets.

And for Hotch's benefit, Emily made sure that her breasts were very much on display while she did so.

She'd stopped buttoning up, one button above her navel.

"So Prentiss," Hotch asked with a smirk while straightening out the clean pillows at the top of the bed, "was demonstrating for me just how good your breasts looked falling out of my dress shirt, one of the items on your sex/seduction list? Because if it wasn't, it absolutely should have been."

Just like at the door downstairs, she looked like the typical male fantasy. This time though, that was with her hair damp and straight, and all of her makeup washed off. But there was an innate beauty and sex appeal that there that couldn't be denied. And if he wasn't so God damn tired, he'd have happily ripped those buttons off, and stripped her naked again.

But he was too tired.

Though he'd definitely be copping a feel once they got back into bed.

"Oh!" Emily's head popped up in surprise, the folded edge of the top blanket falling from her fingers, "the list! I almost forgot about the list!"

Then she dropped down on the mattress, and leaned over to get into the nightstand.

"We should definitely have checked out the list tonight," she continued while punching in the drawer code. "I put some good stuff on there."

As she started digging into the drawer to get her little notebook out from the back, Emily felt the mattress dip slightly, and then Hotch's arm was wrapping around her waist.

His head poked over her shoulder.

"A locked bedside drawer," he murmured from behind her, as both his eyebrow . . . and level of interest in the contents of said drawer . . . inched up when he saw a box of condoms under Emily's wrist. "So what else is in there besides the list?"

He tipped his head around to see her face, his lips twitching.

"Anything good?"

Though he wasn't actually into sex toys himself . . . as far as Hotch was concerned no mechanized equipment was ever going to surpass his enjoyment of the "hands on" approach . . . he was rather curious what it was that Emily Prentiss was keeping in what was, apparently, her sex drawer. Just because he wasn't into _toys_, didn't mean that he wasn't into _Emily_.

And Hotch was definitely very interested in finding out exactly what made Emily tick.

Emily's eyes crinkled slightly at Hotch's question. Then she stopped digging for the notebook to pull the drawer open wide instead.

Better for his perusal.

"You can look," she patted the hand resting on her stomach, "but don't get too excited. There's nothing weird in there. I'm a simple girl."

Though she wouldn't ordinarily let ANYONE dig into her private drawer . . . hence the lock . . . given her innate emotional trust of Hotch . . . and the fact that the man had tongued her to orgasm three times in the last week, and she'd yanked down his boxers and deep throated him when he walked in her front door . . . she figured that as far as 'sexual secrets' went, they were down to about zilch.

And so when he moved to sit beside her, and then reached in to let his fingers curl around the little bag that contained her vibrator, she thought nothing of it. She just watched as he pulled it out, and his brow furrowed. Then he took the hand that had been resting on her stomach, and raised it up to touch the ribbed edging of the pink plastic, with the tip of his finger.

"Does it work?"

"What?" Emily asked with a wrinkled brow. "You mean like, does it do the job?"

He nodded.

"Yeah," he turned to look at her, his face slightly scrunched up, "does it feel the same? Because this," he touched the ribbing again, "doesn't feel the same. So I'm just curious. I mean," he waved his free hand around slightly, "if you don't mind me asking."

Though he had of course _seen_ vibrators before . . . there was little in the sexual realm that hadn't come across in his work . . . he'd never actually handled one.

At least one that wasn't in a sealed evidence bag.

And if Haley had had one, she'd kept it well hidden from him. Though he did allow . . . though it was a bit of a shot to his male ego . . . that even before things unraveled, with him traveling half the month, she might very well have felt the need to invest in a 'secondary release.'

Which was perhaps why he was somewhat fascinated to see one of them up close.

"Well," Emily smiled at Hotch's clear bewilderment at the single woman's backup friend, "it certainly can't do what _you_ can do, not even close, but yeah," she shrugged, "if a girl isn't lucky enough to _have_ a Hotch available, it gets the basic job done. You know," she reached over and pushed the button to turn it on, "you stimulate A," it started to vibrate in his hand, "you get reaction B."

Hotch's brow inched up as he stared down at the vibrating pink plastic for a second, again wondering at its adequacy . . . his equipment didn't do anything like THAT(!) . . . before nodding slowly.

"Got it." Then he pressed what he now knew was the on/off button, before turning to give Emily a soft smile.

"Thanks for answering my incredibly personal question."

Emily grinned.

"Yeah well, thanks for being a way better fuck than that little piece of plastic."

When Hotch burst out laughing, Emily reached over to take the vibrator out of his hand. And as she was tucking it back into the bag, she saw him eyeing the rest of the contents in her drawer.

There was nothing else in there that she really thought was going to catch his attention . . . condoms, mints, some lube, not even the fancy flavored kind . . . but then she saw him reach out to pick up her tattered romance novel.

And seeing it then through his eyes . . . how dog eared it was, with the silly pictures on the cover . . . she felt an unexpected stirring of embarrassment.

"Don't make fun," she said softly, while watching him turn it over in his hands, "I know it's kind of silly, but I like it."

Hotch's brow darkened slightly as he turned to look at Emily in surprise.

"I would never make fun of any of this," he whispered seriously, his dark eyes locked onto hers, "this is your private drawer. Your private business. I feel honored that would you let me see what's in it." Then he reached over to put his hand on her knee. He squeezed it.

"I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?"

The concern was clear in his tone.

"No." Emily shook her head firmly, "no, not all. I wouldn't have opened the drawer if I didn't want you to see what was in it. I just, um," she swallowed then, just as her eyes fell away from his, "I'm not used to being with someone like you. I mean," her face started to get a little warm and she waved her hand slightly, "I'm not used to being with someone that I _trust_, the way that I trust you."

Her gaze snapped back to his.

"I wouldn't ordinarily let anybody see this stuff. That's why it's locked up. And for a second," her attention shifted back to the novel, "looking at the book the way you must see it, how old it is, and the dumb 'bodice ripping' cliché on the cover, I just got a little nervous." Her voice dropped, "like maybe, even though it's you, and I know in my head that you wouldn't, that you still might tease me about it."

Funny how she had no qualms about sharing every inch of her body with this man, but the idea of sharing her book . . . something that sexually stimulated her mind . . . suddenly she felt incredibly exposed.

That was a psychological insight that she'd ponder at a later date.

Seeing Emily sitting there in his shirt, her hands in loose fists while she bit her lip, Hotch felt an unexpected wave of protectiveness wash over him.

She looked so small and vulnerable.

And that's when he knew that she wasn't just afraid that he would tease her. She was afraid that he would judge her.

That he would hurt her.

And he had a feeling that she had been hurt many times before. So his expression softened as he reached over to touch her cheek. Then he turned her head so she was looking at him.

Her brow was pinched.

"I would never tease," he whispered while leaning over to give her a peck on the lips, "I promise."

When he pulled back . . . seeing the worry in her eyes had begun to fade right before she squeezed his fingers . . . Hotch's lips curved in a faint smile. It wasn't until she reciprocated, that he looked back down at the old novel.

"So now that that's settled, now I am curious, why this book? And why _this_ book for the last . . ." he flipped open the front cover to see the date. "Fourteen years! Wow." He turned to look at her, "have you really had this book for _fourteen_ years?"

Those must be some sex scenes!

"Yeah," Emily smiled, "I bought it new way back when. And as to why this book, I don't know." She shrugged. "It's good smut."

Hotch's eyes narrowed.

"That's all? Because I have to imagine that there's a whole billion dollar cottage industry out there of good romance novel smut," his gaze dropped back down to the book in question. "So why . . ."

And then he stopped, his attention caught on a passage from the back description . . . and his lip quirked up.

"It's a lady gunslinger!" His excitement was clear when looked back over to Emily, "_that's_ why you like it." His eyes tracked over the full description on the book jacket. "She's the hero," he grinned, "and the male protagonist, is the damsel. So to speak. Quote, 'the widowed farmer raising a daughter on his own, while trying to fight off the evil land grabbers', end quote."

After that Hotch flipped open the inside cover, and after he'd read the first paragraph, he looked back at Emily.

"May I read it?"

Emily's eyes popped.

"You want to read my trashy romance novel?" She asked in surprise, "_seriously_?"

He nodded.

"Yeah, I do." Then he rolled his eyes, "but not on the jet or anything, just when I'm here. I'm curious."

She stared at him.

"About what?"

"You." Then he gave her a little smile. "And also about how Sara 'Quick Silver' Parsons, saves the day with her pearl handled, nickel plated, Colt 45."

Emily laughed.

"Okay," she gave a good natured shrug, "if you want to read it, it's okay with me. Oh," she pointed to the book, "and there's some good stuff in there. Especially on page one eighty-seven, there are a few things that we can try when you get there."

Seeing Hotch's eyes light up as he scrambled to flip ahead, she started to laugh again. He was too funny.

And minute later when she heard him mutter a, "whoa," she grinned.

"If we do try it, you know you'll have to let me stay on top. And also you'll have to wear a black cowboy hat during."

When his wide eyes snapped over to hers, she shrugged, a little twinkle now forming in her own eyes. "You know, to make it authentic for the scene."

Given she'd been reading that sex scene for almost two decades, and she was now getting a real live partner to act it out, there was no reason not to do it right!

Hotch stared at Emily for a second, his jaw twitching as he considered the implications of playing the LITERAL "damsel" in what seemed to be her favorite sex fantasy scene. And make no mistake, based on what he had just skimped over in the plotline, 'Sara' was clearly the sexual dominant for the whole encounter.

He'd be handing over a lot of control.

And yes, that was something that he knew he needed to work on anyway, but he didn't know if he was ready yet to let Emily run things to the end.

What if he started to get antsy, and ruined it by taking over?

Well okay . . . he gave a mental eye roll . . . it was unlikely that he was going to '_ruin_' it. It was still sex with Emily so it was going to be a good time no matter what, but he didn't want to "ruin" her decade old fantasy.

That would be jerky thing to do.

So he knew that he needed to give it a little more thought.

And after taking a breath, his eyes dropped back down to the open book. He re-read the key acts in the three page scene . . . then read them again . . . and then he looked back over to Emily.

"All right, deal. You stay on top and I promise I'll do my level best to suppress my," he rolled his eyes slightly, "baser instincts."

Emily frowned.

"But I don't _want_ you to suppress your baser instincts," she countered, "your baser instincts are why I've had more orgasms in the last week, than I've had in the previous six months combined." Then she gave him a little smile as she tapped the book.

"How about, if we can get through to the part where they break the chair, that we'll consider it a success? And then from there, we go with whatever we're in the mood to do?"

It would still be an effort for him to get that far, but NOTHING like the effort that would be required for him to get through the last part.

Sara had Ben spread eagle on the floor! Hotch would NEVER be able to get through that!

Hotch's eyes crinkled (and he breathed a sigh of relief) at Emily's proposed compromise.

"Okay," he nodded, "sounds good." Then he looked back to the book and ran his finger down the page. "But if I'm doing the hat for the whole thing, you have to get one of these things." He started reading, "a burgundy silk and taffeta corset."

Though he wasn't generally (ever) much for role playing, the hat was nothing. And he certainly wasn't going to miss an opportunity to get Emily into a red silk corset.

Her breasts would look FABULOUS!

Emily leaned over, reading the description of the old fashioned undergarment, and then picturing the intricacies involved in cinching it up.

"Okay, I'll google it tomorrow to see where I can get one. But you're going to have to help me get into it." She tipped her head onto his shoulder while continuing more softly. "Otherwise, it's not going to be so much sexy as just, droopy."

Hearing a bit of the 'less self-assured' Emily making an appearance, Hotch's brow wrinkled. Then he dropped the book back into the drawer, so he could turn and scoop the beautiful brunette over into his lap.

Dips in self-esteem were not allowed on his watch.

"After seeing you in this shirt," he murmured while cuddling her close. "I find it hard to believe that it is possible for you to not be sexy even in a flannel housecoat three sizes too big. But," he bit down a sigh while rubbing her back, "just so we're clear, you have my assurance that from this point forward in time, regardless of the nature of our relationship, I will absolutely assist you with getting into, and out of, any underwear, of any kind, from any decade, in any century."

Emily chuckled as she slipped her arms around Hotch's chest and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Thanks," she whispered while nuzzling the curve of his neck, "you're a pal."

"Yeah, well," his eyes crinkled slightly, "I do what I can."

And what he'd done just then, was even out her mood. And now he was wondering just how often she had those little dips. And he was also wondering whether anyone else ever bothered to pick her back up again.

Or did they just wear on her soul?

The thought was worrisome, and it stayed on Hotch's mind while they sat quietly quiet for a moment. He was rubbing his thumb along the smooth skin of Emily's thigh . . . and then another thought came to him, and his eyes popped open wide.

"Oh," he patted her shoulder, "we forgot your list. We were supposed to update it."

"Yeah," Emily snuggled in closer, her fingers dancing across his chest, "but we can do it tomorrow."

No list was worth breaking off a cuddle as good as this one.

Hotch's eyebrow inched up in surprise, his eyes were locked onto a speck on the carpet.

"You want me to come back tomorrow?" He asked slowly.

Huh. On offer to come over two days in a row. This was very interesting.

And unexpected.

Originally their deal was only supposed to be twice a week. And two days in row would . . . in theory . . . indicate a desire for them to get together more than twice a week.

"What?" Emily frowned as she lifted her head, her brow was clearly furrowed in confusion when their eyes caught. "Do you not _want_ to come back tomorrow?"

"No!" Hotch's voice inched up an octave in his haste to make it clear just how much he would like to see Emily again. "I mean," he cleared his throat while waving one of his hands around, "yes, I absolutely would love to see you tomorrow night. But tomorrow's Friday. I have Jack," His nose wrinkled slightly, "remember?"

If only he could sneak Emily in after his boy went to bed. But that was too risky. If Jack woke up in the middle of the night . . . a not uncommon occurrence given that it was a new apartment . . . Hotch would never be able to explain her presence to him.

"Oh," Emily bit her lip, "right. I totally lost track of the days. Um," her jaw twisted once, "well, what about Sunday then?"

It had taken WAY too long to get him over this week. Six freaking days! And each new day that passed, brought the possibility of them having to go wheels up on another case.

Which was why she was more than willing to up their anti from their original 'twice a week.' She just wanted to cram in as many 'get togethers' that they could, _while_ they could. Because really, sex of the kind that they were having, was the kind that you wanted to have as often as possible! And it was most definitely the kind of sex that you rearranged other . . . more mundane . . . elements of your life to have.

Like laundry.

Ordinarily she did laundry on Sunday. But clearly there would be no contest between washing her delicates, and having sex with Hotch.

Hotch nodded enthusiastically to Emily's Sunday proposal.

"Yeah, Sunday works. Actually Sunday always works. I usually drop Jack back off around one, so if you wanted," he shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, though in that moment he was feeling anything but, "we could maybe make that a regular all day thing."

Emily's face lit up.

"All day!" she sputtered excitedly, her fingertips pressing into his shoulder, "every week?! God, that would give us like eighteen HOURS!"

This was AWESOME! Yeah, Laundry Day was totally Sex Day now!

Hotch's lips twitched.

"Though I appreciate your faith in my stamina Emily," he shifted back with a groan to pull his legs onto the bed, "I'm _fairly_ positive that eighteen hours of sex would kill me." Then he continued while moving their bodies up another few inches, "you'd probably have to finish up on your own around hour six."

Emily started to giggle as she pushed Hotch onto his back.

"Goofball," she chuckled while moving around so she was straddling his chest, "I'm not saying that we'd have eighteen STRAIGHT hours of sex. I'm just saying that if we paced ourselves, and worked in some good nap times so that _neither _of us collapse into a big pile of goo, we could definitely," her lip quirked up, "start off the week with a bang."

"A bang, huh," Hotch waggled his eyebrows, "sounds like fun."

Never let it be said that Emily did not have some FABULOUS ideas! And a weekly, day long, sexathon, was probably her best one yet.

He might actually need to carbo load the day before just to get through it.

"Yeah, I thought you'd like that," Emily responded with a faint smirk, "I might even let you pick the pizza toppings on our takeout."

Hotch's lip quirked up.

"Now, now," he huffed, his fingertips gliding along her calves, "let's not move too fast."

Seeing the grin spread across Emily's face, Hotch winked. Then they stared at each other for a moment, and though he was simply enjoying her physical proximity, suddenly he took conscious note of her position . . . half- naked, straddling his chest . . . and what that position had led to on each previous occasion that she'd climbed on top of him.

Sex.

Hot, sweaty, hours long, sex. And though having that hot, sweaty, hours long sex with Emily was presently his favorite (adult) past time . . . Jack was still his favorite pastime period . . . Hotch knew that there was no way in HELL, that he had another round in him right then!

Not without an IV first.

So he preempted any move she might be ready to make with an "I'd love to Emily, really, but," his nose wrinkled, "I think I might be tapped out for tonight."

If three times a night became their standard, he was going to drop ten pounds . . . or drop dead. Though, thinking about it, if he had to pick any way to go, that would obviously be it.

Seeing the exhaustion rimming Hotch's eyes, even as his lips pursed with regret, a soft smile touched Emily's mouth. The living embodiment of '_the spirit was willing, even if the body was weak.'_

But that's not what she was looking for anyway.

Again, she was a bit tapped out herself.

"I wasn't trying to 'seduce' you Agent Hotchner," she murmured with a squeeze of his fingers before dropping her hands to his chest, "I just wanted to talk for a little bit, and I figured that this here was," she gently patted his chest, "as good a place as any to catch up."

"Oh," Hotch's expression immediately perked up as he realized that he wasn't going to be expected to put on a command performance that night.

Thank Christ.

Then he reassessed the gaps in the dress shirt Emily was wearing, and noting all of the lovely lady parts on a 'peek-a-boo' display for his perusal.

"Okay," his gaze drifted up and along her body, admiring the visible curves that he was now so intimately acquainted with, "well then can I just say for future reference, you can definitely drop down on me whenever you'd like. So now what," his eyes snapped up to hers as he crossed his arms behind his head, "did you want to talk about?"

Emily smiled.

"You."

His eyes widened in surprise.

"Me?"

"Yeah," She leaned forward to give him a kiss. "You," she murmured against his lips, "your day." Then she sat back a bit. "Earlier when you were on the phone," her eyes crinkled slightly, "I got sleepy because I liked listening to your voice. But then later when we were watching the movie, I was thinking about what it was that you were talking about before I fell asleep. And I thought that it might be good for you to tell me about it."

Seeing Hotch's brow wrinkle slightly just before responding in a confused tone, "but I did tell you about it. The home invasions," Emily realized that she wasn't expressing herself correctly.

"No," she tried to clarify with a shake of her head, "sorry, I didn't necessarily mean all of the details of the case, but just your day. Tell me about your day. Besides the actual consult tonight, what did you do?"

Hotch blinked.

"Well," he frowned, "uh, I did a lot of things. What did you want to know?"

Honestly, nobody had asked him about his day and actually MEANT it, since he and Haley were still sharing a bed. And given that when she asked he had always lied through his teeth and said that things had gone "fine" even when he'd spent the day looking at the remains of dismembered children, he honestly didn't know how to answer Emily's question.

"Anything," she shrugged, "just tell me anything."

It was curious that he was so thrown by such a simple question. But then she thought about it for a second, and figured that the reason he was looking so bewildered, was because it had been so long since he had somebody in his life that had cared to ask him about his day. That realization gave her a little ache in her chest.

That ache was for him.

"Um, uh, uh," Hotch sputtered for a second before suddenly blurting out. "I had a bagel for breakfast!"

Emily's mouth quivered.

_Again, adorable._

"Okay," she bit down her amusement while tapping her fingertips on his chest, "and what kind of bagel did you have?"

If this is where they needed to start, then this was where they would start.

"Uh," Hotch's gaze shifted for a second while he thought back, "poppy seed." Then he scowled slightly, "they got stuck in my teeth but it was the only one they had left." The scowl morphed to a sigh, "I had _wanted_ the cinnamon raisin but some woman in front of me got a dozen to go and wiped out the whole tray of them."

Okay . . . Hotch winced . . . that was a completely random and ridiculous story to share. And for a second he started to feel a little embarrassed to have carried on about something so idiotically trivial, but then he saw Emily's brow knit together.

"Wow, what a _bitch_!"

And hearing her righteous support of his _bagel_ drama of all things, he actually felt a little spot of warmth in his chest. She really did care about his little drama . . . she cared about his day.

It had been a long time since he'd had anyone that did.

So when she asked him to tell her something else, he found it easier to find something to say. He told her about his run-in with the Forensics chief, that his team had denied losing a blood vial from a case out in St. Clair. That their chief was claiming that the BAU admin had never dropped it off, and that her copy of the evidence transfer had a false initial on it.

That the Forensics tech in question said she'd never signed it.

For that one Emily hit the roof.

As she ranted and raved at their arrogance, she mentioned that the same tech who was denying receipt of the vial, had been being accused of a sloppy RNA report for a child abduction case she'd handled a few years back. Hotch's eyes widened in shock.

He'd never heard anything about that allegation.

He asked Emily to tell him more.

And so as she began to tell him the story . . . she'd gone to the Academy with one of the investigating agents . . . he brought his arms down, and his hands rested again on her calves.

Though he was feeling oddly connected with Emily in that moment, it was also a little strange being with someone in such an intimate way, who actually understood his work. She wasn't Haley, she wasn't a civilian of any kind.

She was part of his world . . . and it was her world too.

And with this new intimacy and trust that came about from the sexual developments in their relationship, Hotch realized then that perhaps there was more he could achieve from this arrangement, than simple sexual release.

Which would have been sufficient by itself.

But maybe Emily could be someone that he could talk to. A sounding board for the petty grievances and bullshit of the day.

The stressors he could never bitch about with Dave.

Dave of course being the only other adult human in his life with him he ever discussed issues of a 'non-work' nature. But something like the bagel incident . . . he internally winced . . . Christ, he'd sooner slam his hand in a car door than EVER tell Dave Rossi about his disappointment in not getting his desired FLAVOR of breakfast food! Dave would be busting his balls for a week.

But Emily wouldn't.

And so when she shifted to lie down on his chest, he wrapped his arms around her body, and pulled up the blankets. And then in the quiet that only be found in the early hours of the morning, he told her about something else too silly to discuss with Dave.

His light bulb problem.

One of the overhead fluorescents in his office had started to buzz a week ago, but because it hadn't completely burned out yet, Maintenance said that it had to stay.

The buzzing was driving him, literally, INSANE! He'd started talking to himself when the door was shut.

At that Emily snuggled in closer and kissed neck. Then she murmured that one of the janitors owed her a favor. And that she was sure that he'd replace the bulb immediately, no questions asked.

She'd have it done the next day.

Hotch smiled and kissed the top of her head.

"Thanks," he whispered. And then he was silent for a second before he slid his hand down and patted her butt.

"But now," he gave her a light pinch, "you know that you have to tell me what this favor was that was SO big that you now have an FBI janitor in your hip pocket."

At that Emily started to giggle . . . the vibration tickled his collar bone. Then she lifted her head.

"Okay, but you have to promise not to tell anyone at work," she put two fingers up as her lips twitched, "and I want scout's honor on that."

Seeing Hotch about to open his mouth, Emily raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, uh, I know damn well that you were Boy Scout Aaron Hotchner! There's no way in hell that a man with a pants crease that could cut a Ginsu knife, didn't spend at least a few years out in the woods playing with his rocks and rubbing his stick."

Hotch rolled his eyes.

"Okay," he huffed indignantly, "first of all, I was _six_. And I wasn't out there 'rubbing my stick' and 'playing with my rocks,' I was MAKING fire! And second," he bit back a sigh while pulling out one hand from under the blankets to hold up the appropriate digits.

"Fine, scout's honor." Then he huffed, "but if you're fixing felonies for the janitorial staff, please tell me that they're at least ones under our direct jurisdiction."

Emily laughed again as she once more put her head down on his shoulder.

"It was nothing like that," she continued with a soft chuckle, "I helped him out of a jam last month." She cleared her throat, "let's just say that this particular janitor's sexual proclivities are a bit outside of 'standard' societal norms."

Hotch's brow knitted together.

"What kind of sexual proclivities are we talking about?" He asked suspiciously.

"He's a plushophiliac," Emily responded flatly.

Hotch's mouth opened . . . and then closed.

"A plushophiliac," he repeated in the same tone.

"Yep," Emily responded with a pop of the P, "he's a big old plushy. And his costume of choice is a giant rooster."

Hotch snorted at the imagery. Then he started to laugh.

"No Freudian significance there!"

"I know right," Emily chuckled, "the guy likes to dress up as a giant cock! Which you know," she shrugged slightly, "whatever, if that's what he's into and there are people out there who don't mind having sex with Foghorn Leghorn, more power to him."

As long as nobody was hurting or exploiting anybody else, Emily basically took a 'live and let live' approach to other people's sexual kinks. Everybody had a reason that their buttons got pushed one way or another.

Though admittedly that giant cock thing was pretty God damn hilarious.

"Okay," Hotch choked down his laughter, his fingertips now tapping a light rhythm on Emily's back, "so if he's into the plushophila scene, which is not at all illegal, how did this janitor come to owe you this gigantic, light bulb exchanging worthy, favor? Oh," his brow wrinkled, "and how exactly did you come to find out about the giant rooster thing? Because that does not seem like something that's going to come up while he's emptying your recycling bin."

Emily tipped her head back.

"Will told me."

Hotch's eyes popped.

_"Will?_ As in JJ's Will?! Is he also . . . I mean do they . . .? You know what? Forget it, I don't want to know."

GOD! Now he just couldn't get these images about JJ's sex life out of his head! Was that how they made the BABY!?

"No, no!" Emily winced and waved her hand, "God! Nothing like that! Nothing at all to do with them personally, or JJ at all. Last month Vice did a raid on a sex party in Georgetown. They weren't there for the orgy, that was, of course legal. They were there because somebody dropped a dime that there were prostitutes, and also a dealer onsite in that apartment. That's how Will and his partner ended up there. But there was no dealer. He confirmed, and I read the reports. No prostitutes, no dealers. Nobody was high, or even intoxicated. Apparently it was a 'vegan, straight edge' plushy crowd."

Emily's nose wrinkled slightly as a thought occurred to her.

"Though how exactly you can be a sexually active plushy vegan. I mean really, if you don't eat . . ."

Hotch cut in before Emily could finish her sentence.

"Thank you Prentiss," he cleared his throat, "but I don't need a graphic visual there on the blow by blow activities at the vegan, plushophiliac orgy."

"Oh," she blinked, "right. So anyway, Will is at this raid, the janitor somehow recognizes him from the week before when he came in to pick up JJ, and starts pleading for him to help him out. Because you know," Emily's nose wrinkled, "the bureau would definitely frown on any employees being picked up in a sex raid. Even if he is just a janitor and not an agent. Also, somebody, probably the same person who had called the cops, had called the Post. There were reporters out in front of the house. So even though there was nothing illegal about the party, getting his picture in the paper, in a giant ROOSTER costume, Christ, they'd have canned his ass just for the bad publicity alone."

Hotch nodded.

"True. And though perhaps this gentleman might wish to find his entertainment in a less conspicuous part of the city, any raids in Georgetown are going to make the front page, I agree, he should not have lost his job over his attendance at a private party."

Then Hotch's brow wrinkled.

"But how exactly did you get involved? I'd think if anything, with Will's connection, JJ would have been the one pulled into it."

Emily huffed.

"Geography. I lived five minutes away. Will called, explained the situation, and asked if I would be willing to do the guy a favor, and pick him up. I said what the hell, send him out the back door and I'll pick him up on the next block." Emily smiled.

"And that is how I met Jimmy the Janitor who promised me his first born child as thanks for saving his ass. Which makes me believe that he will be happy to change your unchangeable light bulb in exchange for being allowed to keep his future progeny."

Hotch stared up at Emily for a moment, his brow narrowing.

"Good call," he responded drily, "because you know the Bureau also frowns upon trafficking in human babies, Agent Prentiss."

"Yeah well," Emily shrugged, "when it's a giant rooster mating with a petite grizzly bear I'm not really sure you could call them 'human' babies."

Hotch's nose wrinkled.

"A grizzly?"

"Yeah," Emily nodded, "her name was Mona. Jimmy's girlfriend. I had to stick her head in the trunk," she rolled her eyes, "so to speak."

Hotch closed his eyes.

"Okay," he shook his head, "we really need to move on to another topic of discussion. Because having too many of these images in my head, is not going to bode well for _our_ future sexual encounters."

Yeah, the last thing he needed when he was trying to get an erection, was the image of a ROOSTER doing it with a GRIZZLY BEAR!

"Oh yeah," Emily's nose wrinkled, "you're probably right about that. So okay," she took a breath and cuddled in closer, "moving on. Did you know that Derek lost a bet with Dave, and now he has to take Reid out on a double date this weekend?"

"No," Hotch started to chuckle, "I missed that one." Then his eyes crinkled in amusement as he rubbed his hand down Emily's back.

"Tell me everything."

And that's how they spent the next hour. Trading stories and gossip, and Hotch laughing more in that one conversation, than he probably had in the last month combined. He was having a really good time.

And they weren't even naked.

And then when Emily started to yawn, he kissed her temple and whispered that was enough for now.

They could talk more on Sunday.

So Emily mumbled a sleepy, "k," then pushed herself up slightly to reach over and get the remote from the nightstand. She handed it to Hotch, and as he turned on the TV, she used his chest to lever herself up even further.

After she'd turned off the bedside lamp, she shifted over to cuddle up at his side.

Better to see the TV.

"Something black and white," she murmured, watching him flip through the channels, "I don't care what. I just don't want bright colors."

"Black and white," Hotch repeated softly, "okay." Then he checked the time, and remembered something from the guide when he was looking for a show to watch earlier in the night.

He punched in the channel number from memory, before his gaze slid down to Emily at his side.

"S'okay?"

"Yeah," her eyes crinkled while she patted his stomach, "perfect."

The Twilight Zone.

It had seemed like an Emily type show. And Hotch was pleased to see that his profiling on this topic had proven to be correct. And as he leaned over to place the remote back on the nightstand, he couldn't help but notice that Emily . . . who a moment before was yawning with exhaustion . . . was now biting her lip. Her eyes were wide with interest as she watched the activity on the screen.

His lip quirked up.

This woman's relative adorableness when she was excited about something that most people would find completely abstract, was fast becoming his favorite (new) aspect of her personality. It was a piece of her that she had mostly kept hidden at work. But now she shared it with him.

She was sharing a lot with him.

And that was making him feel pretty special. And so he settled back on the pillows, and she settled in at his side. She was still wearing his shirt. And he was enjoying that outfit almost as much as he had the little white nightgown.

Speaking of . . .

He slipped his arm around her shoulders, asking if maybe the white nightgown could be put in the regular playtime rotation.

It was definitely a fan favorite.

But then she pressed her breasts into side while explaining that she had all manner of slinky, sexy, lacy items that she wanted to model for him, and did he really want to limit playtime to just one outfit.

He did not.

Though he did ask if maybe she could still wear the white one again sometime . . . it now had sentimental value. That's when she pushed herself up, a soft smile touching her lips as she leaned down to give him a kiss. Then she promised to wear it again.

But she'd leave it for another special day.

And as she dropped back down to his side, her attention back on the show, his attention began to wander.

He was now thinking about the coming Sunday afternoon.

When he knocked on her door, now he knew that there would be something new . . . something in lace or silk . . . that would barely be covering that beautiful body of hers.

He could hardly wait to see what she'd be falling out of next.

Hmm . . . his gaze momentarily dropped down to the blankets . . . so that was yet another thing to look forward to in his life. Not just the sex, but the greeting at the door. It was an unfamiliar emotion for him.

Sexual anticipation.

Of course back when he was a newlywed, sexual anticipation had been a regular part of his life.

And then that part of his life had faded.

Marriage became, well, marriage. Sex became routine. Not boring, or bad, just . . . normal. It wasn't until the very end when it became non-existent. But even before the separation, it had been a LONG time since his wife had surprised him with a sexy outfit. Again, it was marriage.

By year ten, the surprises were long gone.

And now his marriage was long gone too. Being reminded of that caused a dip in his mood, because for the last year, the only bright spot in his life, was the time when he got to see his son.

And actually in the early days of the separation . . . when Jack had first been ripped away from him, and all Hotch could focus on was how to get his family back together again . . . those hours that he spent with his boy, knowing that there was a clock ticking the whole time, they had been more painful than he could bear. You can only love your son for _this_ long, that's it. Then your time is up. You have to give him back.

His mother said so.

Bitch.

Feeling his residual anger and bitterness rising up . . . and knowing that it served zero purpose in his life as it was now . . . Hotch tried to push it down again. To focus in on the reality. And the reality was that things really were better than they had been. Now he and Jack had a routine. And they had good days together. But it still wasn't what he wanted.

He wanted his child back.

But . . . Hotch took a slow breath, his gaze shifting back up to television . . . that wasn't happening. The situation was what it was. And on some level he had begun to accept that the divorce, though he had fought it to the bitter end, probably had been for the best. Because that chasm that had slowly formed . . . and then had completely divided . . . him from his wife, it had been an absolute. That distance that had crept in between them, there was no fix for that.

Because by the time he'd realized that distance was there . . . the fixes were already beyond them. That was the truth that had taken him so long to accept.

His marriage had begun to fall apart many years ago.

And he was probably on the road when it happened.

And that realization . . . that he could live that lie for so long, and not see it for the charade that it was . . . terrified him. Which was why, though he couldn't deny his deepening affection for Emily . . . in every respect, he really had had a wonderful evening with her . . . things between them couldn't be more than what they were in that moment. It was going to be some time before he was in any position, emotionally or psychologically, to offer her more than his body. And that was no reflection on her.

Quite the opposite actually.

She was great. Funny, smart, sweet . . . kind. For the right man . . . he brushed his fingers through her hair . . . she would be the perfect woman. But he wasn't the right man.

He was a mess.

A mess that was completely incapable of building a meaningful relationship with _anyone_ right now. If he tried to, well . . . his jaw twitched . . . he knew that he would just end up causing her pain in the end.

But this . . . he tipped his head down next to hers . . . this he could do. Just sex, television . . . cuddling. No promises. No commitments.

Nobody got hurt.

Eventually of course he would have to move on to more than that. Move on to building a new life.

Perhaps even find a new woman to share it with.

That last one was a daunting proposition. But one that he knew he didn't have to think about now. This arrangement with Emily, though it was temporary . . . it was also open-ended. Provided everything stayed status quo, and nobody found out what was going on, they could do this for some time.

Perhaps even into the fall.

Regardless though . . . he bit down a sigh . . . for however long this lasted, however long she allowed him in her bed, Emily was giving him hope for the future. After tonight, and realizing just how truly _happy_ he'd been to see her waiting for him at the door, he was positive now that what they were doing was right. This time with Emily, it would make him better. Because no longer was he just standing alone wallowing in his bitterness about the divorce, and drowning himself in the work. That wasn't healthy for him. And it wasn't healthy for Jack.

His son deserved better.

And Hotch had been trying, truly, but he hadn't known how to move forward.

Now he did.

Because now he had something else in his life besides that darkness. He had something good. Something that was making him happy. Emily. And that's all everyone wanted really, just someone to keep them company.

A hand to hold in the dark.

And as he looked down in the blue glow of the television to see Emily's fingers curled around his, Hotch knew that at least he had that much. He kissed her temple.

And that was his place to start.

* * *

_A/N 2: And their evening is ended. And you can see they did make some bonding progress on the non-sexual front. There was a bit of mirroring here from how things moved forward in Second Chances. Though overall I think it was a very different night, and a very different relationship. _

_If you're wondering, no, that romance novel does not exist. Though now I do kind of want to write it :)_

_Next we'll be picking up with them on Sunday. Thanks everybody!_


	6. Of All The Gin Joints

**Author's Note: **Though this is the day for the planned Sunday Sexathon, you'll discover in a moment that it is actually a safe read for work/school :)

Also here, it'll start to become more obvious that it's not just Emily who is already feeling a blurring in level of attachment for Hotch. He's falling down the same path.

* * *

**Prompt Set #20 (July)**

Show: Sabrina, the Teenage Witch

Prompt: Deliver Us From E-Mail

* * *

**Of All The Gin Joints**

Emily's brow wrinkled in confusion as she looked through her peephole.

_What the . . .? _

She whipped open the front door.

"Didn't you get my message?"

Hotch blinked, his surprised gaze taking in Emily's cleanly washed face, and purple flannel pajamas. Though there was no denying that she looked cute . . . part of that was just Emily, and part of it was the little cupcakes on the pajamas . . . it wasn't exactly the 'sexy seductress' look that he was expecting.

Something was off.

"What message?" He asked in confusion, automatically fumbling to pull out his phone. "Did you send me a text?"

"No," Emily shook her head, "it wasn't something to send on an FBI phone, so I sent an email. Yesterday morning. You didn't see it?"

Seeing Hotch's continued look of utter befuddlement, Emily sighed.

"No, I'm guessing you didn't see it. I was telling you that I got my period," she rolled her eyes, "and it's only a day in, so we're going to have to put a pin in the planned eighteen hours of sex." She pouted. "Sorry."

Okay, this was embarrassing. Not the fact that she'd gotten her period, but the fact that he hadn't gotten her message! Email wasn't ordinarily her first line of communication, but she couldn't very well send him a text about it . . . they were on FBI accounts for God's sake . . . and it wasn't really the kind of thing that she wanted to leave on his house voicemail.

What if his son was standing there when he played the message?!

And given that there had been like thirty six HOURS left before he was supposed to show up, email had seemed like a perfectly logical way to reach out. It really hadn't occurred to her that Hotch wouldn't check his personal email at ALL! But seeing him standing there with his ready bag on his shoulder, watching his face fall, she felt like crap about having to ruin his day. It was bad enough that she'd already had to ruin her own.

Stupid menstrual cycle!

Hotch stared at Emily for a moment, trying to keep his BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT at this turn of events, from being readily apparent by the expression on his face. It wasn't her fault that she got her period, these things happened, so he wasn't going to be a dick about it.

But GOD . . . he ranted to himself . . . EIGHTEEN PLANNED HOURS OF SEX, GONE! What kind of shit luck was THAT?!

Okay Aaron . . . he took a breath . . . get it together. It's just sex, not a heart transplant, you'll live. And say something for Christ's sake! You've left her hanging here so she's going to think you're pissed off.

"Ah," he waved his hand dismissively, "it's okay. No problem, it happens. So I guess I'll just uh," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "go."

And he turned on his heel.

Though his words were perfectly polite, on some level he didn't quite understand, it felt like he was being a bit rude. Like there should be a more 'chivalrous' way to disengage from the conversation.

But he didn't quite know what that way would be.

After all, they weren't actually 'dating.' He had just shown up to have sex, they weren't having sex, so what else was there to say besides goodbye?

Right?

Hotch had just pressed the button for the elevator . . . still ruminating to himself about the general etiquette of the situation . . . when he heard Emily call out.

"Wait, Aaron!"

He turned back to see Emily running to catch up . . . she was apologizing again.

"I'm really sorry that you came all the way over."

And he cut her off.

"No, Emily," he put his hand up as he took a few steps back down to the hall to meet her, "it's fine. You don't have to . . ."

"No," Emily cut in as she stopped in front of him, "it's not fine. I feel really badly that you came all the way over. And thinking about it, when I didn't hear back from you, I obviously should have tried to call you this morning to make sure that you got the message." Then she rolled her eyes slightly, "and I don't know, seeing as we have to use the Bureau phones, and this situation _is_ going to come up again, maybe we can work out some text code to cover the biological cock block."

Seeing Hotch's mouth quiver at "biological cock block," Emily's eyes crinkled. Then she reached out to tug on his fingers.

"But I was thinking," she continued while looking up hopefully. "Given that you're already here, and you'd already cleared your day, do you want to spend the night anyway?"

Hotch's eyebrow inched up a quarter millimeter just as his mouth opened . . . and closed. And that's when Emily realized that was giving him COMPLETELY the wrong impression! So she quickly shook her head.

"No, no, not for sex. I don't, well," her nose wrinkled distastefully, "that's not my thing. But," her expression brightened again, "there's a Bogart marathon on this afternoon. I was going to order some junk food and huddle up with my hot water bottle." She gave him a little smile.

"Would you like to join me? Maybe I can just huddle up with you instead of my hot water bottle?"

Even if they couldn't have sex, she knew that they could still have fun. Off duty Hotch was good company. He was intelligent, thoughtful, and without the constant stress of a case hanging over him, that dry wit of his was much more on display.

He'd had her giggling like an idiot more than once the other night.

For a moment, Hotch stared down at Emily, the automatic, "no, no thank you. I have to get going," sitting on the tip of his tongue. Because that's what he always said when somebody asked him to do anything that was simply defined as 'social'.

But then he again took note of her hopeful smile, and the way her warm hand was tugging on his fingers. His eyes dropped down to the floor.

Though it wasn't eighteen hours of sex, Emily's offer did still hold some definite appeal. After that little chat the other night in bed, Hotch had discovered that he did very much enjoy spending off duty time with her even when they weren't completely naked.

And also . . . more to the point at the moment . . . he literally had _nothing_ to do. Nothing at all.

Yesterday, he'd gone out of his way to take care of all his errands in anticipation of being naked with Emily, all day today. So with his schedule completely cleared . . . and it being a physiological impossibility for him to simply 'relax,' alone in his own home . . . he knew that if left to his own devices, he was going to go back out to his car, and drive into the office. And then he'd spend the next six hours immersed in case files. And that would be AFTER already putting in a seventy hour week. But he had decided the other night that he needed to stop working so much, and so often.

So it would be pretty God damn pathetic to break that pledge to himself like FOUR days later.

His eyes snapped back up . . . Emily was watching him with a raised eyebrow.

"Humphrey Bogart, you said?" he asked slowly.

"No," Emily rolled her eyes, "_Jasmine _Bogart. Yes Humphrey! And I'm going to take it from the question, and the fact that your eyes just shifted back down to my door and back again, that you've decided to stay. So," she squeezed his hand and flashed him a brilliant grin, "come on."

She started tugging him back down the corridor..

"Let's get inside before the neighbors see me _literally_ dragging men into my apartment. It won't be good for my image."

Just then they stepped over the threshold, and she turned to slip the bag off his arm and to shut the door.

Hotch immediately slid the deadbolt.

Good . . . Emily's eyes crinkled . . . now they were in for the night.

She started down the hall then, calling back over her shoulder.

"Just so you know, seeing as you've now seen more of my naked body than my gynecologist, you've been elevated above 'guest' level. So," she dropped his bag by the stairs and turned to give him a little smile, "I won't be waiting on you hand and foot. Just help yourself to whatever. But again today," her lip quirked up as she put her hand on her hip, "that doesn't include me."

Hotch's lips twitched as he walked up and stopped in front of Emily.

"Understood."

They stared at each other for a moment, and Hotch couldn't help but notice that Emily's eyes were bright with amusement. She did look cute.

Adorable really.

And Hotch was feeling . . . well, he wasn't sure what he was feeling. Attracted to her, yes. That was an easy one. Because this last week and a half, he had become accustomed . . . very quickly . . . to the intimacies of their off duty relationship. But now that they were off duty and the 'intimacy' portion of that new relationship had been taken off the table, he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself.

Or his hands.

At this point in their private time they'd ordinarily be tearing off Emily's clothes.

And he was just about to ask Emily if she too was feeling a little off kilter, when suddenly she leaned up and kissed him.

It was nothing like the passion that she'd greeted him with the other night, but . . . his hands fell to her waist, feeling the fuzzy material of her pajamas beneath his fingers . . . it was still nice.

It was very nice.

Nice enough that he pulled her in closer, one hand sliding around to the small of her back and the other still resting on her hip. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, her hands fisting in the material of his Academy t-shirt.

And when they broke off the kiss a moment later, her lips slightly bee stung, and her breath coming in small pants, she gave him a shy smile.

"I just realized that I was really happy to see you." She whispered. "I hope you don't mind."

When they were at work, it was still easy to differentiate that world from their new arrangement. He was "Hotch" she was "Prentiss" and everything was just as formal as it always was.

Mostly.

Admittedly Emily had found herself much more 'aware' of his presence than she had been before. And she'd noticed that he'd been staring at her a little bit, but never for too long. Usually once she made eye contact, he'd look away. Basically they were trying to keep one world totally separate from the other.

And they were doing a pretty good job.

But when they were here in her home, with him so adorable in his off duty clothes, and just his general super-hot, hotchness, Emily had immediately fallen into their other world.

The one where she was allowed to kiss him whenever she wanted to.

Hotch's eyes crinkled.

"No," he huffed slightly, "no, I don't mind at all. And," he leaned down to press another quick peck to her lips, "I am very happy to see you too."

With the initiation of that kiss, Emily had just chased whatever vague discomfort Hotch had had about how he was supposed to be interacting with her.

Normally.

Just . . . he pulled her into a hug and kissed the top of her head . . . normally. Or, at least normally for their new relationship.

It was just that today they wouldn't be naked.

And yes, that was . . . he rolled his eyes slightly out of Emily's view . . . unfortunate, but given that he'd very recently broken nine months of celibacy, he could do a seventy-two hour sex fast standing on his head! These were the bumps that came with being in a relationship of any kind. As Emily had so succinctly pointed out, sometimes there was a biological cock block.

You dealt with it.

But he was coming to see that no sex didn't have to mean no fun at all. Again, he'd had a good time the other night when they were just talking. They could still do that. Just, again, they'd be doing it with more clothes on.

So as Emily rubbed her nose on his chest, he patted her butt.

"So what time does Jasmine come on the tube?"

Emily giggled.

"The first one starts at two," she tipped her head back, "The Big Sleep. The marathon's twelve hours."

Now that she had him in the apartment . . . and she'd already not so subtly dropped his bag by the stairs . . . she was really hoping that he wouldn't back out on the sleep over idea. It would be nice to get in a good cuddle when she went to bed.

And Hotch was . . . a bit to her surprise . . . a very enthusiastic cuddler.

She'd woken up early Friday morning with his body wrapped around hers from behind, his head on her shoulder and his arm snaked tightly around her waist. She'd actually had to pull his fingers back to slip out and go to the bathroom. And then when she'd come out to get back into bed, he was already holding the blankets up for her.

They'd snuggled back in like she'd never left.

She'd like to do that again.

"Hmm," Hotch slipped his arm around Emily's waist, and walked them over to the couch, "twelve hours. I don't think I've ever sat and watched television for twelve hours straight."

"Really," Emily harrumphed, "then you've totally been missing out. And besides," she squeezed his thigh as they dropped down onto the couch, "it doesn't have to be all TV, we can also make out a little bit. I mean," she shrugged, "if you want."

Given what she'd learned about men from almost four decades on the planet, Emily knew that Hotch was going to say yes to the make-out. She hadn't met a man yet who wouldn't take whatever action he could get, whenever he could get it.

Hotch's gaze narrowed.

"Breasts in play?"

Emily thought for a second, and then tipped her head.

"I suppose," her eyebrow went up as she wagged her finger, "but it has to be gentle. They're a little tender. And the shirt has to stay on, otherwise," she rolled her eyes, "you know it'll get out of hand and I'll have to shut it down before things get weird."

Hotch's lip quirked up.

"So basically we can make out like we're twelve and playing spin the bottle in somebody's basement?"

"Yes," Emily nodded, "exactly," she put her hand out, "so are these make-out terms acceptable?"

Trying to hide his amusement at her serious tone, Hotch reached out to shake Emily's outstretched hand.

"Yes," he nodded, "they are acceptable." Then he tipped his head, while matching her same no-nonsense tone, "and let me add that I very much look forward to pinning you to the couch in a few hours."

Emily started to laugh.

"I bet you say that to all the girls!"

See, quite amusing!

"No," Hotch responded drily, "never, actually. So," he dropped their hands down to his thigh while still holding onto her fingers, "with making out on the agenda for a later intermission, what shall we do now?"

Though he wasn't getting any sex, he was still pleased to be getting some action. But he also understood the need for it to be fairly minimal. Too much playtime would be like foreplay, and with no relief on the horizon, he'd end up with some mighty blue balls.

That was not a road he wished to go down! Not again!

But also, he knew from many years of married experience, that if you were warned about 'tender breasts,' then you damn well better be careful with them. Otherwise make outs could go downhill VERY quickly.

And if she stopped having fun, that would be the end of that.

"Um," Emily turned to look at the coffee table, trying to spot the menus she'd been flipping through, "we should order food, I guess. I'm starving."

"Wow," Hotch's eyebrow inched up, "that is," he shook his head, "shocking."

The woman's appetite was legendary. Though the more personal time he spent with her, the more Hotch found that quality strangely endearing.

But seeing Emily shooting him a suspicious eyebrow . . . no doubt trying to decide if she should be annoyed by his teasing . . . he responded by shooting her a half of a dimple. And when her lips curved in a soft smile, he let go of her hand to reach over and pull her into his lap.

"Okay," he asked with a sigh while resting his hand on her thigh, "what are we ordering? And will I have to take out a small business loan to pay for it?"

He had discovered that holding her made him feel more connected. And given how cuddly Emily was when they were alone . . . and how generally agreeable she was to letting him do WHATEVER the hell he wanted to with all of her lovely girl parts . . . he was quite sure that she wouldn't mind him picking her up.

And sure enough, once she was in his lap, the first thing she did was tip her head over onto his shoulder.

"Keep that up buddy," Emily huffed while gently swatting his chest, "and your breast action is going to be a quick honk OVER the bra."

Hotch's brow wrinkled in confusion before he lifted his arm, reaching up to up to pull back Emily's pajama top. A quick peek confirmed what he had already suspected.

"You're not even _wearing_ a bra! And when the hell did I HONK your breasts? What am I, _actually_ twelve?"

Not that he had ever done that when he was twelve either, but SERIOUSLY! What grown man HONKED breasts?!

"Yeah, well," Emily's brow furrowed as she batted Hotch's fingers away from her shirt, "shut up with your logical retorts."

Hearing Hotch's dismissive snort . . . which she chose to ignore . . . Emily sucked in a deep breath.

"Okay," she leaned back against his shoulder to hold up the menu between them, "so what are we getting?"

/*/*/*/

They ended up getting a lot.

As far as Hotch could see, it was half the menu . . . and probably a quarter of his paycheck. But Emily pointed out that it was a marathon, and that marathon rules said that you were required to eat continuously, throughout the length of said marathon. If you didn't, you might as well just call yourself a damn Communist.

She made that pronouncement with such a ridiculous, patriotic, self-righteousness, that Hotch couldn't help but burst out laughing. And as he saw her wink back at him right before she kissed his cheek, he realized that she'd said that for him.

To make him laugh.

He felt another little pull of affection for her . . . and another yen of attachment. It was funny how quickly things had changed between them, but he knew for sure that the attachment he felt for her was definitely stronger now . . . or at least more readily apparent to him . . . than it had been before they'd begun sleeping together.

He'd picked up on that Friday afternoon.

That was their most recent 'day after.' And that was the day that he unexpectedly found himself staring at her across the Academy cafeteria. She was talking to one of the agents from the Richmond Field office. And though he couldn't hear what was being said . . . he was too far away . . . he could tell that the conversation was upsetting her. Her brow was pinched, and her mouth tight. And he'd wanted so badly to go over there and see what was wrong.

And though he had always felt a pull . . . and familial affection . . . for his team, what he'd felt then was much more intense. Much more possessive.

And much more personally painful.

His chest actually hurt.

There was this feeling was that it was his _responsibility_ to go make her feel better. Those were actually the thoughts he'd had as he watched her, his nails digging into his palm as he saw hers doing the same. And yes, those thoughts at the time did cause him a bit of apprehension. It was the intensity of them.

And the corresponding twist of his stomach, and pain in his chest, that had accompanied them.

But thinking about it a bit more abstractly after he'd gone back to his office, Hotch had decided that his reaction to seeing her upset had been normal.

At least for someone like him.

His tribe was small, and the connection he now had with Emily was an intimacy that he'd had with very few women before. And truly, his feeling was that if you were going to be involved in an exclusive sexual relationship with a woman that you would, literally, lay down your life for, then hell yes you should feel a strong attachment for her! Otherwise there was no point to any of it.

He might as well be paying for sex.

So with that thought again fresh in his mind . . . the distress on Emily's face and his concern because of it . . . after their food order had been called in, he decided to ask her what had happened that afternoon. Of course he'd wanted to ask her before the weekend, but it had all happened so late in the day . . . after three . . . that he hadn't had the chance.

But with nothing but time for the rest of their Sunday, after she'd turned on the TV and flipped to the right channel, he gave a light pat to her hip.

"I meant to ask on Friday, what were you talking about with Agent Barek? It looked like you were upset about something."

For a second Emily looked up at him in confusion, like she didn't know what he was talking about . . . perhaps it was a bit of a non-sequitur . . . and then her gaze shifted.

Fell.

Then she dropped her head back down to his chest. Her voice was tight when she spoke.

"Oh," she bit her lip, "that. Um, there's a girl down in Richmond, she has a stage four brain tumor. And uh," Emily cleared her throat, "she's a really sweet kid. I met her a few months ago on a Make a Wish visit to the Academy, and we started sort of a pen pal thing. A couple emails a week back and forth. She wants to be an agent. She also wants to live to see her thirteenth birthday." Emily's voice started to thicken, "but it doesn't seem very likely now that either of those things will be happening."

Hotch bit his lip . . . this was not a story that he'd been expecting.

"What happened?" He asked softly.

"Um," Emily blinked back the tears pricking her eyes, "Agent Barek, he's a friend of the family, he helped arrange the Academy visit. And he told me that Sophie, that's the girl, she took a turn. There was a stroke from the chemo, and now she's in a coma. They aren't sure if she's going to wake up. I called her mom when I got home on Friday, she said they'd just signed the DNR. She was crying, then I was crying." The tears started to pool, "and I couldn't stop."

Some little girl that had never done anything to anyone was dying a slow, painful death, and these creatures that they chased, all the horror that they inflicted on the world, most of them would live to a ripe old age. Anybody who believed in a benevolent God was a fool. If he was up there at all, he was an Old Testament bastard.

Smiting the world and moving on with a smile.

"Oh Emily," Hotch tipped his head down to kiss her temple, "why didn't you tell me?"

Emily blinked away her fresh tears, her head coming up so she could catch Hotch's eyes.

"I haven't seen you."

"You could have called," Hotch countered softly, his index finger lightly tracing the curve of her jaw, "I was around all weekend."

Emily stared up at him in surprise.

"You really wouldn't have minded if I'd called you? Because I actually did consider it. After our talk on Thursday night, I was thinking that maybe telling you about Sophie would make me feel better. But," her gaze dropped to his chest, her voice falling at the same time. "I uh, well, I wasn't sure if I should bother you on an off day."

Though Hotch had now been elevated to a greater level of importance in her life, they still weren't really 'dating'. Yes, if he'd actually been around when she'd been crying into her pillow, she most likely would have told him what was wrong.

But he hadn't been around.

He'd been off in another part of his life. So she'd dealt with her sadness the same way that she'd always had . . . by herself. It would be nice though if someday that could change.

If she could find somebody that she could lean on.

Feeling an unexpected tightness in his chest . . . it was the word "bother" that had done it . . . Hotch dropped his eyes down to the rug for a moment.

Though he would never consider an off duty call from anyone on his team a "bother," he also knew that he hadn't exactly been putting himself out there as Mr. Dependable. Yes, he had certainly had his share of team conversations over the last year if one of them was dealing with the aftermath of a gruesome case, but this situation Emily had outlined here was different. She was upset over a sick little girl. She'd been dealing with just a 'regular' tragedy.

If there was such a thing.

But the bottom line was, he understood by her hesitance . . . and phrasing . . . that even with these changes in their relationship, that she _still_ didn't see him as someone to turn to for 'routine' emotional support.

And for some reason that was hitting him pretty hard.

His gaze shifted back to hers . . . he bit down on his lip.

"I know that this last year, I have not perhaps been the most emotionally available person," he started softly, "but I've also been trying very hard not to be a complete bastard."

"Oh Aaron," Emily's face twisted as she immediately cut in, "I didn't . . ."

"No," he stopped her with a finger to the lips, "please, let me finish. That wasn't a dig directed at you, that was directed at me. I have been closed off. Sometimes maybe a little cold. I know this. It doesn't mean I didn't care, it means that I . . ." he took a breath, "well," he gave her a sad smile, "I've been doing the best I can. And staying detached is how I've gotten by. And with Haley gone, I haven't had to," he rolled his eyes slightly, "connect, shall we say, with anyone in a very long time. But if we're going to do this, I can't, uh . . . that is to say . . ."

He stopped for a second to take a breath and collect his thoughts. Then he started again.

"The bottom line is, I'm realizing that we're too involved in one another's lives to pretend like it's just sex in a vacuum. Even if that had been our plan, I just don't see it working out that way."

Feeling her stomach begin to churn, Emily bit her lip.

"Does that mean that you don't want to do this anymore?"

Her voice was small. Though it was only supposed to be casual, the thought of ending this thing now made her feel terribly sad . . . and a little bit sick.

"No," Hotch hurried to explain, "no, that's not what I'm saying at all. I just mean, we spend nine, ten hours a day together. You are not just a woman now sharing my bed Emily, you are a person in my life. We're, well . . ." he swallowed, "bound. Already. Even before the sex. So," he finished softly, brushing his index finger along her cheek, "I don't want you crying yourself to sleep. Not if there was something that I could have done to help you. And I would never consider a call from you, no matter what the topic or the time of day, to be a bother. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

No relationship in practice was ever as clear cut as it was in the blue print. People who signed a piece of paper pledging to love you forever, didn't. People who you thought were simply going to float in and out with no impact, ended up tethering to you for life. And then there were people like Emily.

Ones without labels.

But whatever the two of them were . . . or weren't . . . the thought of her being alone and sad, and crying into her pillow, made his chest hurt twice as much as it had that afternoon in the cafeteria. And so he would rather that situation was not repeated.

Not if he could help it.

Feeling new tears welling up in her eyes, Emily slowly nodded.

"Yes," she sniffled, "I understand. Thank you." Then she leaned over to kiss him, wishing so badly that this wasn't a day where sex was off the table.

But it was.

But that wasn't to say that she couldn't at least find a special way to say thank you.

"For being a sweetie," she murmured against his lips, "you can have my shirt off for the make-out. But just don't break anything."

Hotch chuckled. Then his eyes crinkled as he pulled back.

"I'll be careful. I promise."

"Okay," she gave him a watery smile, "I'm going to hold you to that one. Because if you bust 'em up, playtime for the rest of the week is going to suck."

Hotch's lip quirked up as he stared at Emily for a second. Then he leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Thank you for asking me to spend the day anyway." He whispered. And she smiled as she looped her arms around his neck and whispered back in his ear.

"Yeah, well, thanks for not leaving me to eat fifty pounds of Chinese food all alone."

"Never," he gave her a squeeze, "the Oompa Loompas would end up singing a song about you."

"Oh," she exclaimed, "I'm so proud of you for knowing about Oompa Loompas!" Then she chuckled and kissed his throat, and he found just a little of the tension that he carried with him always, leave his chest.

Because that thing was beginning to happen.

That thing where he fell into the World of Emily. A world where he got hugs and kisses, and somebody who cared about making him smile. And he could laugh with an openness that he rarely experienced in his regular life. The World of Emily was a good place.

He'd love very much to spend more time there.

Because contrary to popular belief, he wasn't an inherently unhappy person. Yes, he was reserved, and a sometimes bit taciturn, but in the past he had only ever been 'humorless and serious' when he was at work.

And that's because his work was serious business.

But during his time with Jack, his heart was full, and for that little bit of time . . . he was happy. And he was once like that with his wife too. They'd had a family, a good life . . . and then they didn't. And the misery from that loss of both his family and his home, had of course begun to bleed into his general persona.

For the last year he'd been terribly unhappy.

It was a spiraling misery.

But he didn't want to be that way. He wasn't a masochist. Being with Emily, the affection she showed him, the light and humor that she was bringing back into this little sliver of his life, those were all good things. He knew that. And he was trying very hard, so very hard, to embrace them. Because he wanted that spiral to end.

And he was going to need her to do it.

So when Emily patted his chest and told him to go change out of his jeans and into his pajamas so he'd be more comfortable, rather than dismissing her request with an eye roll and a logical retort that it was only two in the afternoon, he'd just stared at her for a second, and then said, "what the hell."

Even she seemed surprised that he'd agreed so quickly.

So he went over and dug pair of plaid flannel pants out of his ready bag, kicked off his sneakers and did a quick change in the living room.

She gave him a kiss when he came back to the couch. She said it was a thank you for making the effort. Before he could say anything back . . . like to ask how she could always read his mind . . . the food arrived.

And after he'd paid her delivery boy . . . an amusingly suspicious little guy that Emily said went by just "Billy". . . they settled in with their food. The cartons were stacked up around the coffee table, and the Bogart marathon had started on the TV. They ate and then snuggled, then ate some more. Then they watched a movie . . . and then another. Then they started a third all the while with Emily's little running commentaries and observations accompanying the general soundtrack. She was making him laugh.

She was making him happy.

And then Emily took her top off, and he got happier still.

It was during Hell is for Heroes . . . not one of Emily's favorites . . . so she announced (while unbuttoning her top) that the make out intermission had arrived.

After she'd tossed her shirt over the back of the couch . . . and yanked his off as well . . . she pushed him onto his back. Then she straddled his torso and leaned forward.

His hands came up to rest on her hips, and as her hair fell down in a curtain around them, his lip quirked up. They were literally in their own little world.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," she responded with a wink. Then she leaned in further, her eyes crinkling as his hands slid up her sides. And knowing where their final destination lay, she murmured against his lips.

"Remember," she felt his thumbs brush lightly over her nipples, "don't break anything."

"I promise I'll be careful." He whispered back. And as he gently palmed her breasts, she opened her mouth. She tasted of ginger and snow peas . . . and a sweetness that he could now recognize as just Emily.

And that made him happy too.

Their overall playtime lasted for about half the length of the movie. Not that he was paying the movie any attention, but he was at least aware of the volume of the television. It wasn't exactly a full on make out . . . all activities were restricted above the waist . . . but Hotch had a very good time all the same.

Maybe it was because his release from sexual dry dock was so recent, that he was still grateful for whatever action he could get. Or maybe it was because, hey breasts! Or maybe . . . he bit his lip . . . just maybe it was that the sound of Emily giggling in his ear, brought a particular warmth to his chest that he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Yeah . . . he pulled her down into a hug . . . maybe it was that last one. Because as she snuggled in close the dominant sensation he focused on, wasn't the cushiony softness of breasts pressed against his bare chest, but more the feeling of her warm breath on his throat.

"Are you going to get cold?" He whispered, while his fingertips stroked gently along her spine, "do you want me to get your shirt?"

Emily pouted.

"Yes," she mumbled back, "I am going to get cold." Then she sighed. "So yes, please, I do need my shirt."

It would have been nice to just have the skin on skin contact for a little while. After all, it was all the skin on skin contact they were getting for at least another forty-eight hours.

And as she felt Hotch twist to reach up for her top, she bit back another sigh as she pushed herself up. But then to her surprise she saw that the shirt that he'd picked up, wasn't hers . . . but his.

His FBI T-shirt.

She looked at him, at the shirt, and then back to him again. Her lip quirked up.

"Thanks."

Then she lifted her arms, and he slipped it over her head. When her head popped out, he reached up to fixed her hair from where it was caught in the collar. Then he tucked it back behind her ears.

Feeling an unexpected tug at the attention he was showing her . . . he was just so damn sweet when they were alone . . . Emily quickly blinked, trying to hide the moisture in her eyes.

Damn hormones.

"Again," she leaned down to brush a kiss on his lips, "thanks."

Hotch stared up for a moment.

The other day he'd realized just how much he'd liked seeing her in his clothes. Intellectually of course he knew that it was textbook alpha behavior . . . it might not have been a permanent arrangement, but for the foreseeable future any intimacies this woman shared were to be with him alone . . . but understanding the psychological imperatives involved, didn't detract from his satisfaction in seeing her pert little nipples poking through his blue cotton shirt.

And he couldn't stop himself from reaching up to stroke his thumbs over them, feeling the tips harden through the soft cloth. But then he remembered that her nipples were particularly sore . . . that was the one area she'd requested he try to minimize contact . . . and he immediately dropped his hands down to give her a sheepish smile.

"Sorry."

"S'okay," Emily's eyes crinkled as she caught his fingers and kissed the back of his hand, "didn't hurt." Then her eyes dropped down to his bare chest.

"Do you want to get another t-shirt out of your bag?"

Though he didn't get cold like she did, she figured that he might just prefer to not sit around half naked when they weren't on the verge of having sex at any given moment.

"Eh," he shrugged and tugged her down to his chest, "I'll dig one out the next time I get up. But for now," he slowly exhaled and patted her back, "I'm good."

It wasn't skin to skin contact, but it was the next best thing. So they settled in to watch the end of Hell is For Heroes . . . ain't that the truth . . . and then the next film was introduced.

Sabrina.

"Oh," Emily bit her lip and patted his chest, "I like this one."

"Hmm," Hotch murmured back, "I don't think I've seen it."

"It's really good." she continued softly, "Bogey, Audrey Hepburn, William Holden. In the beginning Bogey's all reserved and by himself, but then he falls in love with Hepburn and she totally changes his life."

"Hmph," Hotch murmured again, though that time it was more of a 'sounds interesting' hmm, than the previous, 'I have no idea what you're talking about' one.

Either way Emily seemed pleased with his interest.

Though, sometime later, around the point that Bogey was trying to be noble . . . idiot was in love with the woman and he was letting her get away . . . Hotch realized that Emily had become entirely too quiet. It wasn't that she generally chitchatted all through a movie . . . or at least that had not been his experience to date . . . but she did huff and harrumph and giggle and laugh, and was an all-around active (amusing) movie watching companion.

But he hadn't heard a peep out of her in at least ten minutes.

So he tipped his head slightly to see her face. And . . . his lip quirked up . . . she'd fallen asleep.

Given that it was still pretty early, barely eight really, her passing out was a little odd. But then he remembered how much food she'd eaten . . . a ridiculous amount for a living human . . . and the digestive process can make you sleepy.

Especially when half of the food ingested was fried rice.

So he just rubbed his hand along her back, feeling the soft cotton of the t-shirt beneath his skin, and her warm body pressed against his. And when Emily woke up twenty minutes later, complaining of cramps and a headache, he got up and got her Motrin and hot water bottle. Then he gave her a little smile and suggested that maybe it was time that she move upstairs to the bed.

That she'd be more comfortable there.

And after he'd sent her on her way with a kiss to the forehead, he cleaned up their dishes and put away their food. Though not before making Emily a little snack. Then he checked the locks, and turned off the TV and the lights. As he was picking up his bag from the bottom of the stairs, Hotch suddenly realized that his no strings arrangement with Emily, had taken a decidedly . . . alarmingly . . . 'domestic' turn. For a moment that thought filled him with panic. He wasn't ready for anything domestic!

Not yet.

But then he took a deep breath, and told himself to man up. Then he reminded himself just how content he'd been all day with the two of them simply lying on the couch and watching old movies. And he wouldn't give the day back, not for anything. He _liked_ Emily. He liked _being_ with Emily. And yes, he actually liked taking care of Emily too. It made him feel good.

Useful.

And for a man who had been feeling pretty God damn useLESS in his personal life for the majority of the last year, a small return to domesticity perhaps was a good thing. Because looking after the people that he cared about, that was part of his personality too.

Another part that had been getting somewhat bitter and twisted in his loneliness.

So as he began to climb the stairs of Emily's home, his fingers trailing lightly along the cold bannister, Hotch decided to embrace these little activities that had been causing him panic a moment before. As long as he could keep the line in his own head . . . what was okay and what wasn't . . . then he could keep things from getting too serious. From falling too hard. And he had no doubt that he could keep all of this shit straight. He was Aaron Hotchner.

He could do anything.

And with that thought in mind, he reached the open door to Emily's bedroom. He saw her lying on her side under the covers, as she stared over at the television. When he stepped over the threshold, she turned and gave him a little smile.

"Come snuggle up with me." Then she patted the mattress, "Casablanca's starting."

His chest warmed and his eyes crinkled.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

_A/N 2: And so you see, Emily's not looking quite so 'mooney' off by herself now is she? :) And you might have picked up on the foreshadowing for this chapter. Emily made a few prior references to having PMS so it was logical that her period would be coming along shortly. And I thought it would be a good opportunity to move them forward emotionally by putting them together for a day in their new 'arrangement' status, but without the sex. So basically they were just behaving like a normal couple, whether they wanted to admit that to themselves or not._

_Funny little trivia. I started this chapter, with the "Jasmine Bogart" line already written, and then the next day TCM ran an actual Bogey marathon all day. It was really freaky. Therefore I feel that on some level I conjured it up. So you're welcome, everybody else in the world :)_

_The next chapter will pick up on Hotch's birthday. And I guarantee there WILL be sex in that one! _

_And updated comment: And yes, good catch folks. This was the debut of Billy, in this universe! :) All hail Billy, king of the Chinese food delivery boys!_


	7. Not Quite Dating

**Author's Note: ** This was supposed to be Hotch's birthday, but then I started a little prelim to ramp it up, and the prelim ended up taking on a life of its own. It's a breezy chapter though. Just popping in with them at different points throughout the next few days, so it's a 'light' read :)

And if you'd like to see Em's outfit in this one, you can check it out on the Tumblr post for the chapter.

* * *

**Prompt Set #28 (February 2013)**

Author: Catherine Bybee

Title Challenge: Not Quite Dating

* * *

**Other Accounts:**

_****PERSONAL WEBSITE: www . fractured-reality . com**_

_**Twitter: ffsienna27 **__– For story announcements, etc. If the alerts, (or the site), are down, this is a backup to find out what's going on for postings. There's also random randomness that is my brain._

_**Tumblr: sienna27 **__– More randomness._

_**Tumblr: cmfanficprompts **__– Just as the name describes. Jointly run with Kavi Leighanna. _

* * *

**Not Quite Dating**

Monday morning, Hotch had a class to teach at nine and then a budget meeting at two, so he set the alarm on his phone to wake him up at five. That was two hours earlier than the alarm on Emily's bedside clock.

Fortunately she barely stirred when his phone started buzzing.

And after he'd reluctantly let her go, and slipped out of the warm bed to take a quick shower and shave, he came back out to get dressed in the dark. Unfortunately though, he was a little out of practice at getting dressed in the dark . . . it hadn't been an issue since Haley left a year earlier . . . and he tripped over one of his shoes.

Emily clicked on the light just as he leaned over to pick it up.

"What time is it?"

Her voice was hoarse and gravelly . . . he could tell she was barely awake. He walked over and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

"A little after five," he whispered back while brushing her hair off her cheek, "sorry I woke you. I meant to tell you last night that I had to go in early. I have a class first thing this morning, and a meeting later that I need time to prepare for."

Seeing Emily's sleepy face wrinkle in confusion, and watching her clearly befuddled brain trying to process his words . . . her eyes were half closed . . . Hotch's expression softened. Then he leaned in to give her a kiss goodbye.

"You go back to sleep," he whispered as he pulled away, "I'll be gone when you get in, but I'll see you later this afternoon."

Emily gave him a sleepy smile.

"K," she murmured back as her hand came out to pat his cheek. "Have a good day."

His lip quirked up.

"You too."

Then he pressed another kiss to her forehead. And as Emily's eyes started to fall shut again, he felt a little tug in his gut. There was something about a beautiful woman and a warm bed.

He really didn't want to go.

But . . . he bit back a sigh . . . go he must. He had work. He _always_ had work. And he really did need the extra two hours to prep for the budget review. God help him if Strauss asked any questions on the Q1 expenditures and he got caught short. So with another muffled sigh, he rose back up to his feet.

Emily had already fallen back to sleep.

So he checked her alarm . . . reset it to give her another ten minutes to make up for waking her up two hours early . . . then picked up his gun and phone from the nightstand, and snapped off the bedside lamp.

After he got downstairs, he filled Emily's coffeemaker and set the timer for it to start percolating five minutes before her alarm went off. The last thing he did before leaving the apartment was to scribble her a note that he left lying next to what he had learned the previous week, was her favorite coffee mug. Then he turned the lights out again, grabbed his bag and his suit jacket, and headed out the front door.

He made sure the lock clicked behind him.

/*/*/*/*/*

Emily woke up to the sound of her alarm going off and the smell of coffee in the air. For a second she was utterly confused . . . she lived alone, how was there coffee? . . . and then her eyes crinkled when she remembered that Hotch had stayed over. And then she flashed on him getting up earlier, so he must have set the timer on the coffeemaker before he left.

Sweet man.

So with a muffled yawn, she rolled over to turn off the annoying buzzing at her side. Then she sat up and scrubbed her hands down her face.

Though she'd usually hop in the shower first thing when she awoke, Emily wasn't about to look a gift cup of fresh coffee in the mouth. So she stumbled out of bed in her flannel pajama pants and Hotch's borrowed FBI T-shirt. A T-shirt she was thinking about keeping/stealing.

It was really comfortable for sleeping.

When she got downstairs, Emily was still yawning and rubbing her face, trying to decide if Hotch would mind parting with an article of clothing. Then she walked into the kitchen to see her favorite Picasso mug on the counter next to the coffeemaker with the visible carafe of freshly brewed coffee. Her eyes crinkled.

Again, sweet man.

Then she noticed the piece of paper lying next to the mug, and her eyes widened slightly.

_What's this?_

She picked it up.

'_Sorry I had to leave, the bed was nice and warm. Actually you were nice and warm, the bed was incidental. Either way, thank you again for having me over for Chinese and Jasmine Bogart. How about next Sunday we do pizza and Cary Grant? Or does he go by Bianca?'_

By the time she was done reading the note, Emily had a bright, watery, smile on her face.

Sweet, adorable and funny. Not to mention, considerate enough to actually think to leave a note saying goodbye. If he kept it up . . . she shook her head and put the note back on the counter . . . by the time this affair was over, she was going to be ruined for all other men.

Ah hell . . . Emily huffed to herself as she reached out to pick up the coffee carafe . . . given how many orgasms he was capable of delivering, she'd probably been ruined for all other men by their second night together.

Aaron Hotchner was definitely going to be a hard act to follow.

But . . . Emily shook her head slightly as she lifted the mug to her mouth . . . no use thinking about the future. They were very much living in the right now. And right now, she had a handsome man who was a fabulous lover and did nice things for her.

_What else could a girl need?_

/*/*/*/*/*

Traffic leaving the city was light . . . a lot of people probably taking a long weekend . . . so even though she left the house about ten minutes later than usual, Emily still arrived at the office a few minutes early. When she walked up to her desk, her eyes widened when she saw a little white bakery bag sitting on her blotter. Then her lip quirked up.

Hotch . . . again. It had to be. And her bag slid to the ground just as her eyes snapped up to his office.

His lights were out.

Must've already left for his class.

And hardly anyone else was in yet . . . it was barely eight-thirty . . . so with an expectant smile on her face, she opened the small wax bag.

Inside she found a gooey raspberry cheese Danish . . . it looked delicious and smelled even better . . . and a giant, fresh baked, chocolate chip cookie.

Ditto on the sensory overload there.

Each item was wrapped in its own wax paper, and a little sticky note was stuck to the outside of the cookie wrapper.

'_This one is for __AFTER__ lunch, Prentiss.'_

The 'after' was capitalized and underlined . . . twice. Emily burst out laughing, then quickly slapped her hand over her mouth.

Even if there were only four other people in the bullpen, it wouldn't do to draw attention to herself. Or more specifically herself, and her little present.

People might wonder where she got it.

So she put the Danish on a napkin, then she tucked the cookie back into the bag, and tucked the bag into her side desk drawer.

The sticky note she put in her purse.

Even if the words were printed, again, it was proof of a gift that she didn't want anybody to know that she'd received. So it would be best to take it home.

And besides that though . . . her eyes crinkled as she started up her computer . . . she liked it.

/*/*/*/*/*

Emily's vagina was still a penis free zone from Monday into Tuesday night. But then Wednesday afternoon, she popped into Hotch's office and shut the door behind her. When he looked up, she shot him a big grin.

"Landing strip is once again cleared for arrivals."

That was the beauty of being on the pill. Her periods were nice and regimented. They'd usually left town completely by day five.

Hotch's lips twitched slightly.

"Roger that. So how about we book that charter for," he checked his watch and then his desk calendar before his eyebrow inched up, "nineteen hundred hours?"

She nodded and gave him a little smile.

"Works for me. Do you want me to order dinner?"

"Um," Hotch bit his lip, "if you want, I can make dinner. Spaghetti would be easy. And I noticed on Sunday that you had the basics in the pantry."

It would be nice to make somebody else dinner again besides just Jack. His son wasn't generally a fussy eater, but his culinary palette was still fairly limited. Hotch adding a sprinkle of cheddar to the mac and cheese last month had been enough to throw Jack into a tailspin. _"But it tastes FUNNY, daddy," _had been run on a repeat loop all through dinner. A dinner that ended up only being half eaten. After that, Hotch had decided to stick with the powdered cheese alone until Jack hit four.

Then they could try to mix it up again.

"That'll be nice," Emily's lip quirked up, "and while I'm waiting for you to arrive I'll dig out my pots and blow off the dust."

Hotch chuckled.

"Yes, please. Dust free pots would be good." And he was just about to open his mouth again, when his phone rang. When he saw the caller ID, his nose wrinkled slightly.

"Ah," he put his hand on the receiver, "this is Los Angeles, and I have to take it. Agent Ramirez is trying to get a transfer out there and I promised I'd be available today for a reference call. So," he picked up the ringing phone and put his hand over the mouthpiece, "see you tonight," he whispered.

After Emily mouthed back a, 'bye,' she gave Hotch a little wave and slipped back out of his office. Her brain was whirling with excitement as she walked back down the stairs, considering what she wanted to be wearing when he came over.

Maybe something a little slutty.

It would be a treat for him to make up for Sunday's communication mix up. Not that they hadn't had a very nice day anyway, but . . . she dropped back into her chair . . . it had still been a mix up worthy of an apology.

And nothing put a girl's karma back in the black, quite like a little skin on display.

And fortunately she was a multi-tasker. So with the back of her brain digging through the contents of her lingerie drawer, she settled in at her desk to read over the latest ViCAP bulletins.

Three hours until she could go.

/*/*/*/*/*

That night Emily did indeed greet Hotch with (more) than a little skin on display. She was wearing the black and white flowered teddy that she'd put back in the drawer the week before.

It barely covered, well, not a lot.

Hotch took one look at her, dropped his bags on the floor, scooped her u, and tossed her over his shoulder. As with the week before, the accompaniment for him jogging up the steps, was the sound of her upside down giggling. And then they spent the next two hours making up for their lost Sunday.

Emily was pretty sure that she set a Guinness record for greatest number of orgasms in the smallest period of time. Hotch told her that if she wanted to look it up, to make sure she did it on her personal laptop.

He didn't want to have to explain that google search to the tech guys.

And given how industrious their activities were, it wasn't surprising that Hotch . . . as with the week before . . . needed a nap when they were done. The woman did wipe him out. But by ten-thirty, he was feeling completely rejuvenated. Well, except for a minor case of starvation.

He'd burned off a hell of a lot of calories.

So when Emily went into the bathroom to freshen up, he went downstairs in his boxers to start their late dinner. First he turned on the pot of water that Emily had already filled and left sitting on the stove. Then he dug into the back of the freezer to get the bag of pre-cooked meatballs that he'd seen in there the week before when she was taking out her ice cream.

A half dozen of the meatballs went into a separate pot that he then filled with two cans of diced tomatoes from the cabinet. He was just measuring out the basil and garlic powder, when he heard Emily come down the stairs. Then a moment later she was wrapping her arms around his waist.

"Where's my dinner, woman?"

He chuckled and gave another shake of oregano into the dish he was stirring.

"It's coming dear."

Then he put a cover on the pot, checked the heat on the spaghetti, and turned around to see Emily in his dress shirt, licking her lips.

"I'm so hungry I could eat you."

"You already did that," he responded drolly, memories of her talented lollipop sucks still fresh in his head, "remember?"

They were still going slow on the blow jobs . . . a bit of licking and kissing had been allowed . . . but tonight she'd asked if it would be okay if they tried out the whole enchilada again soon.

And given that he had been enjoying the licking and the kissing quite a bit, he had said okay.

He could always shut it down if he started feeling uncomfortable.

But he could tell from the sheepish grin Emily was giving him, that she was remembering the last time.

"Oh yeah," she leaned up to smack a kiss on his lips, "I do remember." Then she winked and laced her arms around his neck, "that was good stuff."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered while scooping her up in his arms. "I know, I taste amazing." And with her chuckling in his ear, he hefted her up a little higher, and started walking down to the living room.

"You want to watch TV?" He asked as he dropped down onto the couch.

Emily shook her head.

"Not yet," she nuzzled his neck, "let's just sit for a minute."

"Okay," he bit back a sigh, "sounds good to me."

And with Emily shifting slightly in his arms, he settled back against the couch. She rubbed her cheek on his bare shoulder.

"You smell good."

"I think it's the sauce," he responded drolly, and she chuckled.

"Yeah, there's that too, but this," she kissed his shoulder, "is you." She kissed him again . . . and again.

"And you smell yummy."

It was a mixture of his fading aftershave, his regular Hotch smell that she'd always found so comforting, and then there was this new scent that lingered. This 'post coitus' musk that she was now so intimately acquainted with.

It drove her wild.

And then one of his hands slid down to run along her bare thigh.

"I'm all for a second round," he whispered in her ear, "but fair warning, if I don't get some of those carbs in me first, I might just pass out on top of you."

Emily lifted her head to give him a smirk.

"Finally, an excuse for me to get on top."

His lip quirked up.

"Always working an angle aren't you Prentiss?"

"Yeah," she rolled her eyes, "you got me. I was hoping to drive you the point of hunger induced sexual exhaustion, for the _sole_ purpose of working in a bit of cowgirl before the weekend."

"See," Hotch harrumphed, "just as I thought, ulterior motives." When her lips began to twitch, he winked. Then he tugged her back down to his chest and whispered in her ear.

"Round two, first half you on top, second half, we do that belly thing you like so much."

She loved the belly thing. And he loved to play with her breasts, so this proposal seemed like a win all around to him.

Emily's eyes crinkled as she nuzzled his throat.

"That sounds perfect."

* * *

_A/N 2: So you see, a lightweight chapter. Just gauging how things are moving along in between the bigger stepping stones. And NEXT time, we'll definitely be up to Hotch's birthday. _

_Thanks everybody for all the feedback here :)_


	8. The Change In The Game

** Author's Note:** Heads up, this one is once again, NSFW. Very much so ;)

* * *

**TV Bonus #43 – It's Your Birthday Baby**

Show: Route 66

Title Challenge: A Gift – For A Warrior

* * *

**The Change In The Game**

Hotch ended up staying over both Wednesday and Thursday nights. And then again he was back on Sunday. They ordered a couple of pizzas . . . well, four, Emily wanted leftovers . . . and watched their planned Cary Grant marathon from her fairly expansive classic movie collection. And in between the movies, and the pizza, and the lounging around doing absolutely nothing at all, they had sex.

Some really fabulous sex.

They obviously didn't hit (or even attempt) the full eighteen hours, but Emily felt that they'd definitely made excellent use of the time allowed. They tried out a couple of new things . . . one that felt fantastic but Hotch vetoed trying again unless Emily got herself a helmet (she'd fallen off the bed) . . . and then 'practiced' a bit more with some moves that were fast becoming old favorites. All in all, when Emily finally curled up in Hotch's arms for the last time that night, she fell asleep a very happy girl.

A tired one . . . with a small black and blue from the falling off the bed thing . . . but very happy all the same.

And then the next day . . . Monday . . . was Hotch's birthday. And Emily wanted to start his day off on the right foot, so she surprised him with an extra early morning wake up. It was only a little after five, and her method of waking him up was to place butterfly kisses over his brow until his eyes slowly opened. Then she grinned and whispered happy birthday, and that his first present of the day was going to be a quickie before work. When his lip quirked up to give her a sleepy smile, she smirked and slid down under the covers.

It was the perfect day to again go for the whole enchilada.

So she spent the next ten minutes moving up and down his shaft while also giving some rhythmic "digital" attention to that little spot that drove him wild. And with his breath catching and his fingers clenching down on the sheets, she knew that he was definitely enjoying himself. But she also remembered that she had promised to go slow on the fellatio. So once his hips began to move, she knew that it was time to change positions.

With one final, wanton, lick, she came back up to her knees. And seeing him trying to get his breath under control . . . even having sex, Hotch liked to project the cool and collected thing . . . she shot him a saucy grin.

"My turn."

And she shimmied forward, pressing her hands against his chest before she slowly dropped down onto his full wet, length.

His hands immediately came up to slide around her waist.

"Oh _God!_" She moaned at the sensation of his warmth filling her, "that is sooo good!"

Then she closed her eyes for a moment before she bit down hard on her lip. She could have just stayed there for a few minutes . . . she loved that feeling when they were first joined . . . but then she felt Hotch's thumb working a soft caress down low on her hip. Her lids popped up again, and she looked down at him with a little smile.

"Okay," she purred, "you're the birthday boy, and I know you like the classics. So if we're going straight missionary, do you want to be top or bottom? Or," she grinned, "Would you like to try something special to start the day? Maybe me doing cartwheels across the bedroom?"

Hotch's lips twitched as his hands slowly slid up to trace the outer curve of Emily's breasts.

"Perhaps we'll do cartwheels some other day," he responded as his thumbs stroked over her already taut nipples, "you stay where you are for now." He winked, "I'm enjoying today's show."

Though ordinarily he preferred to 'run' the show, these weeks with Emily had loosened him up a bit on that front. He still hadn't reached the point where he could let her stay on top for the entire run, but he was pretty sure that day would be coming eventually. Emily was quite talented, really, and there were definitely perks to be had in letting her be on top.

His eyes crinkled as her breasts began to bounce in his face.

Yeah . . . he leaned up to lick the tip of her little pink nipple . . . like that. That was a major perk.

And some minutes later, being able to watch her face when she hit her first orgasm of the day, that was a pretty good one too. At that point his own peak was still building at an exquisitely slow pace, but he could see . . . and feel . . . that even as Emily was coming down, she was already raring to go for another one.

God love her . . . his hands slid down to cup her beautiful ass . . . she was always ready for another one. But he also knew that she might not have the energy to keep things going long enough to have the multiples that he wanted her to have.

So he flipped them over.

Then, with her still writhing up against him, he moved his hand down between their bodies, and slowly rubbed his thumb over her clit. A few minutes later he had her panting again.

And sometime after that . . . with her arms wrapped his neck, and her legs wrapped around his waist . . . they finally came together. And after they had caught their lost breath . . . she kissed him. It was sweet, and gentle . . . even a little bit romantic. And his affection for her in that moment where he nuzzled her throat, and whispered her name, was greater than it ever had been before.

It was definitely the perfect way to start his birthday.

Even better was that Emily had specifically woken him up early enough that they'd be able to work in a quickie nap after the quickie sex. Just as he'd needed no encouragement for the sex, he needed no encouragement on the sleep front either.

They didn't even bother to disentangle. Really the only movement at all was him sliding over to the other side of the bed.

Dry spot.

And with Emily still curled around him like a spider monkey, her breath soft on his shoulder, Hotch pulled the sheet up from the floor, reset the alarm and wrapped his arm around her waist.

They woke up an hour later still wrapped together.

And when she sent him out the door forty minutes later, he still had a smile tugging on his lips, and a little twinkle in his eye.

He was hoping nobody at work would notice.

/*/*/*/*

In honor of Hotch's previous, 'missed breakfast' story, Emily stopped at Dunkin on the way in to work to pick up a black coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel with extra cream cheese on the side. Though he had . . . of course . . . beaten her into the office, she still wanted it to be a surprise. So she waited until he stepped out to the copy machine, to slip the little bag onto his blotter.

And when he walked past her desk a few minutes later on his way back up to his office, she kept her head down while proclaiming loudly.

"Happy birthday, sir!"

As far as the bullpen was concerned, that was 'officially' the first interaction they'd had that day. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pause for a moment in his journey up the little staircase. His response was slightly more subdued.

"Thank you Prentiss."

When she looked up at him with a smirk, she could see that he'd turned to look down at her, and that the little twinkle had returned to his eyes. Then his lips twitched for a moment.

Once he got that under control, he turned, continued up the stairs, and disappeared into his office. And though he said nothing then about her treat, that was most likely because the boys arrived just as he closed his door.

But then they went in for the morning briefing, and when she sat down across the table from him . . . it was on their 'day afters' that they made their most concerted efforts to keep a physical distance at work . . . he mouthed a discreet 'thank you.' And when he saw that nobody was looking, he shot her a wink and a half a dimple.

It was silly, but she had to put her head down to cover the blush that immediately climbed her cheeks.

It was just impossible to keep from getting flustered when 'off duty Aaron' . . . her now regular, supremely affectionate, bedmate . . . suddenly made an appearance (though it was always a fleeting one) in the middle of a work day.

Whether it was a dimple for a shared memory, or a private wink across the bullpen, or maybe his fingertips gliding across her arm or back when they stepped through a door, every little touch, every little look, it caused that tingle low in her stomach. That reminder that she mattered to someone.

That she was mattered to him.

And that was becoming enough to make her days.

/*/*/*/*/

At lunch, Emily, JJ and Garcia, went out and bought Hotch a small cake from the bakery in the center of town. Then they trapped him in the conference room, and while the team sang him a slightly wobbled, off key, happy birthday, Emily pounced.

From behind her back, she whipped out a little blue cone shaped paper hat. Before he could pull any defensive moves . . . like knocking it out of her hand . . . she'd plopped it down onto his head, snapping the string under his chin with an audible pop.

And though she knew from the howls of laughter from the team . . . and the look of horror Hotch shot her when it happened . . . that she was going to pay for it later, it didn't matter. It was worth it. He was adorable.

For the ten seconds that he actually wore it.

But that was nine seconds longer than she thought she was going to get out of it, so who was complaining? Her mouth quivered as he spun it across the conference room table.

Certainly not her.

/*/*/*/*/

That night . . . extra late, Haley had let her ex take Jack out for dinner and birthday cupcakes . . . when Hotch knocked on her front door, Emily met him wearing nothing but strategically placed buttercream frosting and swirls of canned whipped cream. Name brand of course. Nothing but the best for the birthday boy.

She just thanked God he wasn't a diabetic.

That was another coupling that began by the door. His ready bag went flying in one direction . . . his clothes went flying in all the others. And while he was sucking frosting off her nipples, she was using the melting whip cream . . . which was rubbing off of her and all over him . . . as a lube to begin pumping him in her hand. And once she'd gotten him to the point where he was too distracted with her activities to keep up with his own, she dropped down to her knees and took a lick of her own sweet treat.

To her surprise, he let her go on considerably longer than they had that morning. She wasn't sure if it was because he was really trying to loosen up and let go, or maybe it was just because it was his birthday and he thought, "fuck it, I'll take the blowjob!" but either way, he had his fingers in her hair, and he was groaning and swearing as she sucked and licked every inch of him.

When she took one of his balls in her mouth, she thought he was going to come right there.

But then she licked her way back out, pressing her tongue down in a hard lick, along every erogenous zone she could reach. After that she started deep throating him again. The pre-cum had started to trickle onto her tongue.

That's when he started thrusting.

Over and over, gasping and panting, as she took him in as far as she could. Her thumb was back and pressing a slow circle around his sweet spot. And she knew from the sounds he was making . . . and the way he was moving against her . . . that he had reached some state of bliss. It went on long enough that she really thought he was going to let her keep going all the way to the end.

And she was ready to lick him clean if he did.

But then suddenly his whole body stiffened up. He made a noise . . . it was almost feral . . . and her eyes snapped up to his.

What she saw made her own hips buck with desire.

His pupils were nearly black, and even as his juice was tricking onto her tongue, he was reaching for her.

"Up," he growled.

Her mouth opened . . . and he pulled out. Then her hands were sliding up his sticky thighs and hips, her body rubbing against his as she licked her way up his chest.

He tasted so good . . . every part of him.

Then his hands were under her ass, he was hoisting her off the ground . . . and she knew that he was heading for the wall.

But then she hissed in his ear.

"No, I want to do the back of the couch. Like I told you."

She knew that was all he would need.

Though he said nothing, he immediately changed direction. Carrying her over and down into the living room. And before she could blink, her feet were back on the ground. Then he turned her around, pushed her forward . . . and bent her over. There were still no words, but his breath was hot and ragged on her neck.

At that point she wasn't sure if he was capable of full sentences.

Then he had one hand on her hip and the other, his fingers slipped up and into her, sliding that lubricant along her entire length, front to back. It was a slow caress . . . it caused a shiver down her spine.

When he tweaked her clit, she sucked in a breath. Her ass bounced up, her hands braced.

"Do it." She hissed.

He kissed her neck.

"Hold on tight," he murmured with a lick of her skin.

That caused a shiver too.

A second later his hand fell away . . . and then she could feel him pushing up against her entrance. His dick was hot and throbbing. And at first he was going slowly . . . he always let her adjust . . . but suddenly he slammed into her.

The only sound was his grunt, and the slap of skin on skin.

She lost that breath . . . he knocked it clean out of her. And knowing that they had a hell of a ride ahead, her fingers were scrambling for purchase, grasping desperately at the couch cushion.

"Again," she moaned, even as she felt him pulling back, his hands now steady on both hips, pinning her between him and the couch. It was just like she told him that she wanted it.

Then he started pounding away.

Over and over . . . and over again. Every thrust was hard and fast. The friction as he moved within her was unbelievable. They were both moaning and panting. The pleasure was slowly building . . . it was getting more and more difficult for her to take a breath.

And then it began to happen.

A fantastic round of particularly rough sex, started to become what she'd dreamed it would be.

Perfect.

That's when she hit the first peak . . . and she screamed. And not just a sex scream, but an honest to God, somebody's going to call the cops, scream. He responded by shifting the angle ever so slightly. And then she screamed again.

And again.

And again.

It was all the oxygen she had, and he took it. And still he continued to move, never breaking the rhythm even as the sweat began pouring off them. One of his hands clamped onto her breast, the other slid between her legs.

It was the most intimate and possessive of holds.

And every move he made. Every place he touched her. It was all just like she'd imagined it would be. With every hit now, he was POUNDING straight into her G spot! The pleasure was so intense . . . and all consuming . . . she truly thought she was going to pass out. This was one time that he was doing all of the work. She felt like a rag doll in his arms.

And his grunts had turned to something more animalistic as he continued to slam into her.

Then his teeth were scraping her shoulder, and the one hand down below was working her clit, and the other was focused solely on her breast. His touch was much rougher than usual. Pinching her nipple and then flicking it with his index finger. But she had no complaints.

It was driving her crazy.

Then he sucked her earlobe into his mouth. He was now hitting every erogenous zone she had . . . and she was coming over and over. It was multiples like she'd never had before.

Never DREAMED of before!

Her whole body was shaking uncontrollably. She couldn't catch her breath. It was like she was exploding out from her center. There was white light filling her mind, her heart . . . her toes. There were tears running down her face. There was spittle running down her chin.

She'd lost all control.

She'd never felt anything as amazing . . . or all consuming . . . in her life.

She could have stayed there with him forever.

She wanted to.

But those moments never could last. The human race would never get anything done if they did. And some minutes later . . . or maybe it was an hour later, she had lost all concept of time . . . he gave one last, violent thrust. And with his desperate moan of "my GOD," filling her soul, she felt that warmth begin to flow into her body.

But she wasn't ready for it to be over.

"Just a couple more," she pleaded, her fingers grasping for the ones that had dropped down from her breast and were now pressed against her stomach. The wave was continuing to rock her core.

She couldn't have stopped then if she'd tried.

"PLEASE," she cried as she pushed back, grinding as she locked down on him, "please just a couple more!"

"Don't worry sweetheart," he groaned, thrusting into her again, "we've definitely got a couple more."

And so he kept moving his hips. That incredible vibration in her womb was keeping him going too. All the while he kept working her hard little clit. And then finally . . . with one last expletive . . . he was completely spent. That's when her hips jerked again.

Violently.

"OH CHRIST!"

And then she was jello in his arms. His palm pressed into her heat, holding on tight.

And there they were, weak kneed, gasping, hearts racing . . . and sticky.

Very sticky.

Emily now half slumped over the cushions that she was most definitely going to have to wash. Hotch was still wrapped around her, his heart pounding into her back as he clutched her body to his. He had one hand splayed possessively across her stomach, the other (much more possessively) still splayed between her legs.

They were still joined together.

He hadn't loosened his hold on any part of her. In fact he'd actually just licked her neck. She'd never felt more 'owned' in her life. Like she had signed away pieces of herself. Handed them over to him for safe keeping.

She was wondering now if he would ever give them back.

Then he nuzzled her neck, and pressed a gentle kiss to her sweaty skin.

"Thank you," he gasped, "thank you so much."

She was too tired to speak again. Too tired to move really. But one of her hands came up to slide over the one still cupping her down below. She squeezed her fingers over his, feeling her warm sticky juice on his hand, just as she could feel his on her inner thighs. The exchange.

The oneness of it all.

"Happy birthday," she whispered, her palm pressing hard into the one covering her little nest, "now let's go to bed."

*/*/*/*

They slept for a little over two hours and then Emily had to slip out to go pee.

But some miracle, she got up without waking Hotch. But once she stood up, she had to bite down on her fist to keep from groaning out loud.

She was so sore she could barely move.

But somehow she hobbled into the bathroom and got the door shut. After she peed . . . another wince, there was a burning there that she knew was not good . . . she immediately took her high dose cranberry pill.

It was her second one that day.

She'd been taking them regularly in an attempt to ward off any UTIs that might come about from having as much (rigorous) sex as she was now having. It wasn't a silver bullet, but, knock wood . . . she chewed up the tart little square . . . they were working so far.

And while she was already up and in the bathroom, she figured it was as good a time as any to clean up. They had both been such a mess when they'd come upstairs, that they'd seriously considered taking a shower then. But that idea was vetoed when they ended up just collapsing on the bed.

They were both too God damn exhausted to do anything else.

So now Emily was covered in the usual male female sexual fluids . . . plus sweat and a little bit of blood on her shoulder where Hotch had bit her into her when he came . . . and there were also the sticky remnants of the frosting and whipped cream.

And a lot of saliva.

Hotch had licked pretty much every part of her.

It was dirty sex by every possible definition, but she didn't feel dirty. It was more like they'd crossed another barrier. That had been a primal exchange. Something deeper than just sex. More instinctual.

Raw.

And raw was about what she was feeling.

And that really wasn't so much a figurative term. Everything was tender, even her jaw was sore from fellatio that had gone on MUCH longer than their previous encounter. And as good a shape as she was in generally, there were muscles now aching . . . _all_ over her body . . . that she had forgotten could even hurt! Even the tops of her thighs were pink from scraping against the couch for an hour. Or however the hell long they were there.

But she still didn't regret a thing.

But she also knew that sexual activity of ANY kind, was going to be out of the question for at least a week. And she also knew that they couldn't have that kind of sex more than once a month or she'd be in the hospital.

Or the morgue.

It was a few minutes after Emily had (gingerly) climbed into a hot shower, that she heard a knock on the door.

"Sorry," Hotch's husky voice echoed in the small space, "but do you mind if I go to the bathroom?"

"No," she yelled back, her eyes closed as the water continued to sluice the sticky fluids from her body, "but please don't flush or I'll end up as a lobster."

"Understood," he called back.

And then she tuned things out. Though she really didn't mind Hotch using the bathroom while she was in there, she felt no need to listen.

A moment later though she heard the toilet lid clatter. And then a second after that, Hotch was poking his head around the corner of the shower curtain.

She looked over at him with a little pout.

"My girl parts hurt."

His face immediately twisted in pain and sympathy.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Was I too . . .?"

And she cut him off.

"No," she shook her head, "not at all. It was wonderful. Truly. It was exactly what I wanted. It's just," she gave him a small . . . slightly pained . . . smile, the water dripping down her face. "I will need some time to recuperate. Probably like a week."

Hotch bit his lip, his eyes tracking slowly . . . and worriedly . . . from Emily's pinched brow, down to her painted toes. They were a glossy pink.

It was his favorite shade.

Emily had let him pick it out yesterday before she redid her fingers and toes. She said she wanted to "pretty up" for his birthday.

His eyes snapped back up to hers.

"Let me help." He gave her a sad smile, the water splattering lightly onto his face as he leaned in, "I broke you. I'll take care of you," he reached out to catch her fingers, "Okay?"

Her eyes crinkled.

"Okay," she squeezed his hand, "if you want to help I'll absolutely let you." She bit back a groan. "I can seriously hardly move right now."

At that he immediately climbed into the shower, and pulled her into a hug.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I promise, we'll be more careful next time." And then he kissed her forehead, put a hand on her hip, and reached over to pick up the shower gel.

After he'd lathered up her wash cloth, he gently washed her body clean, being extra careful as he moved between her legs.

Still though . . . even with his light touch . . . she winced as the soap stung the slightly abraded tissue.

And unfortunately that reaction didn't escape Hotch's attention. Because he immediately froze and then whispered again that he was so sorry. After that he pressed a kiss to her thigh.

For a moment she really thought he was going to cry.

But then . . . just as she reached down to run her fingers through his wet hair . . . he blinked and shook his head. Before she could say anything, he picked up the shampoo and came back to his feet.

Then he washed her hair.

And while her conditioner set . . . he even checked the directions to time it, God love him . . . he gave himself a quick scrub down. She was just standing there letting the water continue to run over her sore muscles.

And she would have been happy to stay there a bit longer, but then the water started to get lukewarm.

Yuck.

So Hotch quickly rinsed out her hair and turned off the faucet. Then he stepped out to the bathmat before he leaned back in to help her out of the shower.

Ordinarily she could have done that part herself of course, but given the soreness in her lower body, her reflexes weren't quite so cat'like. And she really didn't want to add 'cracked skull climbing out of the tub' to her list of ailments that evening.

Once she was clear of the slippery porcelain, Hotch made her stand still on the rug while he gently dried her body with her favorite big fluffy green towel.

His touch was so light, that even the parts of her that were tender, could barely register the sensation of the terrycloth moving. And after that he wrapped up her hair with a fresh towel, and gave her three Motrin from the medicine cabinet. The Motrin she swallowed with the glass of water he got her from the faucet.

He even combed out her hair.

He was being so sweetly attentive that she wanted to cry.

And once she was warm, and dry . . . and medicated . . . he scooped her up, and carried her back to bed. He'd already stripped it and put on clean sheets.

She realized that he must have done that when he first woke up.

After he'd placed her down onto the middle of the soft clean cotton, he went over and pulled a pair of clean boxers and two t-shirts from the little stack of his laundry that she'd placed on the corner of her dresser.

Mostly they were just a few underthings that he'd forgotten . . . or she'd borrowed . . . in his various visits.

One t-shirt he brought back to slip over her head, the other he slipped over his own. Then he pulled on the boxers, asking her if she wanted any underwear . . . she didn't, not yet, she was hoping the chafed areas would heal more quickly without it . . . and he climbed back into bed.

There he cuddled her close, and wrapped her up tight.

It only took a few minutes before Hotch noticed Emily had passed out in his arms. But he stayed awake, staring at her darkened television for at least another twenty minutes. He knew that things were changing.

But he didn't quite know what that meant.

Finally he realized that he wasn't going to come to any revelations that night. So he bit back a sigh, kissed Emily's temple . . . and closed his eyes.

Sometimes it was best to just let it go.

/*/*/*/*/

When Emily woke up again, it was because her stomach was growling. And though she tried to get up without waking Hotch, the moment she moved to roll away from him, his hand fell to her back.

"Are you all right?"

Though his voice was husky with sleep, the worry was still clear in his tone. She turned to see him already sitting up and rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. She gave him a little smile.

"Yeah, I feel much better than I did earlier. The shower and the pills, and the resting, that all helped. Still sore, but mostly now I'm just hungry."

"Okay," he stifled a yawn, "if you're sure." Then he pushed back the blankets.

"Let's go find something to eat."

/*/*/*/*/

Hotch kept a tight . . . and again, sweetly protective . . . arm around Emily's waist as they walked down the stairs. And with neither of them in the mood to cook anything, rather than mixing up any mac & cheese (her recent, post coitus, midnight snack of choice) they just took the leftovers from Sunday's cold pizza out of the fridge . . . this had been her plan all along for the 'extra' pizza . . . and settled in on the couch with the TV on low. There was an old Robert Redford movie on the screen, but Emily wasn't paying it that much attention.

She didn't think Hotch was either.

Mostly they were just eating. The pizza was rinsed down with two bottles each of Sam Adams Summer Ale. It was from the small case that Emily had picked up for them over the weekend. It was good, but it wasn't her favorite kind. His either. She'd just bought the beer because Hotch had mentioned one day last week that he wanted to try it. And she was discovering lately that if he wanted something . . . if there was something out there in the world that might make him happy . . . that it meant something to her to see that he got it.

Even if it was just a bottle of beer.

And on this night Emily watched Hotch scarf down more food than she'd ever seen him eat in one sitting. And when they were done eating and she was closing the empty box, from beside her, she heard him clear his throat.

"Emily."

She turned to see him staring at her . . . his eyes were watering. Her own widened in alarm.

"Aaron," she asked worriedly while reaching out to touch his cheek, "what's the matter?"

"Thank you for my bagel," he whispered, "and my cake, and that stupid hat, and wearing frosting at the door, and for the quickie this morning, and the best sex I think I've ever had in one night. So basically thank you for giving me a really great day from beginning to end." His voice cracked, "I haven't had a really great day, in a very long time."

His days were Jack were good, but today was different. It had been years, literally, since anyone had devoted so much attention to him with the SOLE purpose of just trying to make him happy. And Emily had made him deliriously happy. That was a gift he didn't know how he would repay.

He just wished that she hadn't received any 'battle wounds' in the process. But he was at least going to make that one up to her.

He just needed to figure out how.

"Oh hon," Emily's own eyes started to burn as she twisted around, moving to crawl into Hotch's lap. "You don't have to thank me," she whispered while wrapping her arms around his torso, and burying her nose in his chest. "I liked doing all of those things for you." She took a breath. "It makes me sad to see you sad, and you've been sad for a long time. So I wanted to do what I could to give you a good day. And I know our job sucks, and your life still isn't where you want it to be, but I think if you let me in a little more, let me help you with more of the bad stuff, I think you could have more good days."

She tipped her head back to give him a little smile.

"But we can only have a great day once a month or I'm going to have to go on disability."

Despite his guilt over how she was feeling, Hotch couldn't help but huff at her joke. Then he gave her a watery smile.

"You're a really good person Emily. Actually," he continued softly . . . though a bit hesitantly, "you've become probably my favorite person. Well," his eyes crinkled slightly as he brushed her hair back, "Favorite grown-up person."

Of course Jack was his favorite person overall. Haley had once held equal footing, but he doubted that his son's winning slot was now never going to be relinquished.

Feeling her cheeks burning, Emily's eyes dropped down.

"Thank you," she murmured back with a trace of embarrassment, "that's very sweet to say."

Though these last few weeks things had clearly, and irrevocably, shifted between her and Hotch, it was still a little unusual to hear him sharing his thoughts so honestly . . . and openly . . . with her. It made her heart hurt.

But in a good way.

"No," Hotch reached out to put his finger under Emily's chin. Then he tipped her head back, catching her eyes. "Not sweet," he continued softly, "truth. And I don't know what little turns of fate ended up dropping you back into my life when you did, but," he kissed her forehead before tucking her in closer, "I'm grateful for however it happened. This, being with you," his voice started to thicken again, "it's the best thing I have going right now."

Sympathetic tears immediately sprung to Emily's eyes. Then she tipped her head back to give him a watery smile.

"Ditto," she whispered, "ditto on all counts."

And then they stared at each other for a moment. Though neither of them had made any real 'declaration,' it did feel like there had been a shift that night in their relationship. Whatever it was before, it seemed to be just a little bit more than that now. Everything seemed bit more important. A bit more serious.

Perhaps even a bit more committed.

The last thought scared Emily a little. The idea that maybe she was becoming too invested there . . . or more to the point MORE invested . . . than Hotch was.

And if that was the case, then she was definitely going to get hurt.

But then she heard him sniffle and take a deep shuddering breath. That was just as he pulled her in closer and kissed the top of her head.

And she realized then that her fears were entirely off base.

Just the fact that Aaron Hotchner . . . the biggest badass on every block around . . . was now sharing his actual FEELINGS with her, demonstrated how far things had come for them. How much he trusted her, not only in the field now, but with his real self too.

That trust was an unbelievable gift.

One that she knew was not given lightly, especially for someone like him. Someone who had been completely devastated by the last person that he had trusted with his heart. And even if she only had temporary custody, as Hotch kissed her temple and a tear slipped down her cheek, Emily swore to herself that would take much better care of it than Haley ever had.

She'd be damned if she hurt him.

So with a soft sigh, she snuggled in closer and wiped the stray tear off her cheek. They sat there for a little while longer, her waiting for his breathing to even out, him waiting for well, she didn't know. But she was happy to sit there with him all the same. But then he sighed.

"I guess we have to get up and go to bed now, huh?"

And she murmured back a weary, "yeah, I guess we do."

Though she really was feeling better than she had when she first woke up, she still wasn't feeling all that great. And the thought of getting up and climbing the stairs, REALLY wasn't very appealing. But staying curled up nice and warm and still in Hotch's arms, that was ticking off all the good boxes.

And she had a feeling that he had already figured that one out.

Because the next thing that he whispered into her ear was, "don't worry, I'll carry you upstairs."

His voice was still husky. But then he sniffed and a slight bit of humor came into his words.

"And I promise that this time I won't throw you upside down over my shoulder. We'll put a moratorium on the vertical flip for at least the next week."

The hard part really was going to be not fussing over her at work. Though he thought it unlikely that her discomfort would be as bad tomorrow as it was tonight . . . at least he hoped it wasn't . . . he knew that if he saw her wincing or popping Motrin, or basically doing anything to indicate that she wasn't feeling completely up to par, it was going to be difficult to not swoop in and see what he could do to make it better.

Again, he broke her, so he felt responsible for taking care of her.

And then feeling her smother a giggle in the curve of his throat, he was also again reminded of the intangible benefits of this relationship. It wasn't all about the sex. There were feelings that Emily engendered that made him feel whole again. Useful again.

Happy again.

And then there were the other feelings, the ones that he could feel were growing, but he wasn't quite ready to categorize or label them.

There were a lot of those tonight. He was tucking them to the side.

He'd deal with them later.

"Thanks," Emily huffed with a light pat to Hotch's chest, "you're a quite the gentleman." Then her gaze shifted over to the mess on the coffee table.

Beer bottles, crumpled napkins and an empty pizza box with a couple of crusts inside.

Not a lot of cleanup required . . . basically just trash and recycling . . . but she didn't feel like dealing with any of it right then. It was almost two, and she was again getting tired, ridiculously so. Or perhaps not so ridiculous given the workout that they'd had that night. Either way . . . she cuddled in closer, moving her arms up and around Hotch's neck . . . it was time to get this show on the road.

"Ready when you are, James."

The words were whispered into his ear. And Hotch chuckled softly as he clicked the TV off. Then she closed her eyes as he lifted her up and to his chest. The only thing she could hear besides Hotch's footsteps, was the sound of his heart beating.

A steady thump.

It was in her ear as they crossed the living room, and went up the stairs. And it stayed with her when they were curling up in bed a few minutes later. She counted the beats like someone else would count sheep. And she was just drifting off when she heard him murmur.

"You know I think I'll come over tomorrow night. I'll make you dinner and then I can give you a massage before bed."

Her eyes crinkled slightly and she tipped her head back to give him a sleepy smile.

"Can't wait."

* * *

_A/N 2: And there we go. That's our most NSFW chapter yet! And actually this will probably be the end of the super NSFW stuff for a while. A) Em's got that whole 'do not enter' sign up right now, and b) I've got a shift in plot coming up shortly, and c) lastly, I hate to get repetitive. And if you've ever had to write smuttiness, you can appreciate it can become a bit challenging trying to keep it fresh/not cringeworthy. So, I think for freshness purposes, we'll step back a little to more narrative than 'live' for the 'sexy times.' _

_Otherwise, obviously just a general tug forward on the relationship level. She keeps kicking down his little walls. Given that even in the main Girl'verse they were already starting to get much more affectionate and attached, clearly here, with all of these other factors happening, that's going to escalate things between them. They are coupling up whether it's intended or not. Which will lead to some issues because we'll soon be borrowing a thread from canon. When Hotch got blown up in NY. And if you recall, prior to the blowing up, there was the whole 'is he flirting with that Kate chick' thing. That's going to be way more awkward a question for Emily given their current relationship. Angst ahoy!_

_As always, thanks everybody for all the reading and the nice notes telling me that you're doing all the reading :)_


	9. We Are What We Are

**Author's Note**: These are the days following Hotch's birthday, but it's not yet New York. They do have a case though, and things kind of go off the rails. So half and half, fluff and misery.

And thank you again EVERYBODY for all of the feedback last go round, and all the go rounds before that :)

* * *

**TV Prompt Set #48**

Show: Law & Order: SVU

Title Challenge: Monster's Legacy

* * *

**We Are What We Are**

Hotch came over Monday night as planned. When he knocked on the door a little after seven, he had two grocery bags dangling from one hand. He gave Emily a kiss at the door, and after she'd slipped his ready bag from his shoulder, his holster from his hip, and his suit jacket from his back, he headed down to the kitchen with the food.

And while he started washing the vegetables for dinner, Emily brought his things upstairs to her room.

Her eyes crinkled slightly as she slipped his jacket onto a hangar, and placed it onto the rod in her closet. There was already a spare suit hanging there.

Black of course.

Then she turned and looked around, taking note then of the little pieces of him that were slowly permeating her world.

Clean laundry on the dresser, a pair of running sneakers behind the door. And in the bathroom she knew that there was a contact case on the counter, and a bottle of solution in the cabinet. The solution was sitting in there next to his deodorant, a can of shaving cream and a razor. He didn't have a whole shelf . . . or even a draw yet in her dresser . . . but she had very deliberately made space for him in her private world. Just having him in that world, meant that it was expanding all the time. He made everything about it, better.

And she was starting to wonder just what she would do without him.

/*/*/*/*/

When Emily came back downstairs, she saw that Hotch had already finished up with the vegetables, and was now dropping the chopped up chicken breasts into the cast iron. They sizzled as they fell into the pan.

So she went over to pour them both a glass of wine.

Then she started to make chit chat.

But she very specifically chose _not_ to talk about the job. Just life, generally. She started asking Hotch a series of random questions. Music, travel . . . pop culture, simply whatever nonsense thought popped into her head.

_What's your favorite movie? Favorite author? Favorite band?_

Stuff like that. She'd get his answer, and then she'd share hers. And she just kept crisscrossing back and forth over this inconsequential trivia that people who are sleeping together, usually know about one another.

Though admittedly the things that they were talking about, were NOT the types of things that people who were having 'no strings' affairs generally knew about one another. These were more likely to be the types of things that people in "relationships" would know. It was a deliberate distinction on Emily's part.

A tiny kick of the can that was already rolling down the road.

But Hotch didn't seem uncomfortable by the vaguely 'interrogative' style of their discussion. On the contrary, the more they talked, the less tension she could see in his form . . . it had been a long day with a shitty new case . . . and the quicker he was to smile at her silly little jokes. So Emily just kept chattering on from her position perched on one of the kitchen chairs. Occasionally he came over and fed her a bite of cheese and took a kiss and a smile in return. It was all very . . . domestic.

She liked it.

And then about an hour after Hotch arrived, they ate. Dinner that night was chicken piccata and fettuccini alfredo. Emily couldn't believe how good it was . . . her "Italian" dinners generally consisted of store bought tomato sauce and pre-breaded chicken cutlets . . . so she ended up gushing about Hotch's amazing culinary skills, a little more than she'd realized. Or intended. She only stopped when she looked over to see that his cheeks had developed a faint flush to them.

Oh . . . her teeth bit her lower lip . . . she was embarrassing him.

And though she figured it wasn't 'humiliated' embarrassed . . . that would be silly . . . and more likely just 'hates to be the center of attention/lavished with praise' embarrassed, either way she didn't want him to feel uncomfortable. So she reached over to place her hand on top of his. She squeezed.

"Sorry," she whispered with a sheepish smile, "didn't mean to prattle on. You know sometimes my tongue gets away from me."

Hotch's eyes crinkled slightly.

"Yeah," he huffed drily, glad for a change in topic, "I'm familiar with the wanderings of that tongue of yours."

Her lip quirked up.

"Now, now," she shot him a saucy eyebrow, "you know that's off the menu until Sunday at least. I'll have to stick to bananas until then."

Seeing Hotch's mouth quiver, right before a dimple popped out, Emily knew that she'd reset the tone for the meal. And when he suddenly looked down and shoveled another bite into his mouth . . . probably to keep from saying something back that he knew would just up the ante on the sexual innuendo . . . she pulled her hand away.

There . . . her eyes crinkled as she pierced her own bite of pasta . . . all fixed. Embarrassment removed. And that's why you never underestimated the power of a well-timed, completely uncalled for, piece of raunchy sexual innuendo. That shit could bring peace to the Middle East.

Well, okay . . . her head tipped slightly as she considered the parties involved . . . maybe not.

But it sure as hell could liven up a dinner party.

/*/*/*/*/

After they'd finished eating and had a joint clean-up of the dishes . . . though he'd cooked, Hotch still refused to let her do it alone . . . they settled in on the couch to watch a new dinosaur documentary on Discovery called "Mega Shark."

It was a joint pick.

It was a good one too. They both had that affinity for nature documentaries, even if the topic was nature from a few million years ago. But after the first commercial break Emily found herself with a chill from the air conditioning . . . her after work tank top didn't provide much upper body coverage . . . so she reached over her head to grab the little afghan she'd left folded on the corner of the couch.

Just after she'd tucked it around her shoulders, she felt Hotch reaching for her.

"Here," he tugged her into his lap, "come sit with me." He nuzzled her cheek for a second. "You'll be warmer."

Emily's eyes crinkled as he tucked her in close and she settled against his chest with a breathy sigh.

"Thanks." She murmured with a little kiss to the faint five o'clock shadow on his cheek.

Then she tipped her head onto his shoulder, and turned her attention back to the television.

Hotch's arm was now wrapped loosely around her waist, with the backs of his fingers brushing lightly against her left breast. His hand was _right_ there. But still he made no move to make a move even though she knew that her breasts had definitely become one of favorite off duty playgrounds.

That filled her with an unexpected wave of happiness.

That he could hold her so close, and yet still respect the distance that she needed to heal. A lot of men wouldn't get the distinction. Even if they registered 'no intercourse' they'd think that the woman allowing one touch above the waist meant that he could lead it to another. But Hotch didn't think like that. He didn't think like any man that she knew. Or really any other man that she'd ever known. His world view was unique.

And it was one that she was fast growing enamored with.

And at that realization, her hand began to rub a slow, somewhat absentminded circle around his heart.

As she touched him, the soft cotton of his dress shirt began to gently tickle her palm. And that's when Emily took more conscious note that, though she had changed into her pajamas when she came home from work, Hotch had walked into the apartment and gone right over to start on dinner. So though his tie was loosened and his sleeves were rolled up, he was still very much sitting there dressed in his 'Agent Hotchner' uniform.

That was pretty rare for their alone time.

Usually she had him half undressed within minutes of him walking in the door. So the only time either of them were in their work clothes, was when they got dressed in the morning. But now here they were on the couch snuggled together, him on duty . . . her off.

One foot in each world.

And just like with their activities while he made dinner . . . she liked it. She liked the symbolic implications of it. That they could do both. Be colleagues, and be lovers and also be curled up on the couch like this . . . like something just a bit more. That maybe they might even have a shot at being, well . . . she blinked and looked across the room . . . a couple.

A real one.

It wasn't that she was pinning her hopes on that scenario . . . their future together was far too cloudy for such a silly schoolgirl dream . . . but she couldn't deny that the more time that she spent with him, the more time that she _wanted_ to spend with him. The sex, though amazing, was almost incidental to that want.

It was the time itself that mattered.

Of course expecting any sort of commitment to come from their evenings together was very much _out_side of the parameters of the arrangement. But based on how Hotch had opened up the night before . . . how he had actually shared his tears . . . Emily was starting to see (hope) that he might be amenable to expanding those parameters to build something more.

Or at least something less indefinite.

After all, he was already sharing much more of himself than he ever would in a relationship that anyone would consider a 'no strings hookup.' They had certainly moved far beyond such a casual connection. There were most definitely strings.

And they were starting to get tangled together.

So far that was a good thing . . . bonding and all, they both needed it . . . but she wasn't going to push it. There were certainly no plans to ask Hotch if he'd like to 'talk about their feelings' or anything else so ridiculous. That would be asinine.

And the most direct shot to ruining whatever it was they were building.

But he was a really good man. So sweet and so thoughtful . . . and very funny. He was also brave and strong, and a good cook, an excellent lover, and a supportive friend. Those were a lot of check marks in the plus column, and she hadn't even gotten to the fabulous body or the handsome face.

The man really was the complete package.

Of course the man had some major issues too. And she knew, and had taken note, of those things as well. She certainly wasn't walking around with any rose colored glasses on. That complete package . . . the one most women would die for just a shot at . . . was also an emotionally repressed workaholic with a horrendous temper, major commitment issues, and slightly stunted (though understandably so) relationship skills.

Haley had done a real number on him on that last point.

The poor guy was definitely carrying around a hell of a lot of emotional baggage. But hell . . . she huffed to herself . . . who wasn't? Christ, she was a freaking mess! Sarcastic, slightly neurotic, majorly distrustful, (occasional) binge eating, (occasional) nut case, with self - esteem issues. And yet still, for some INEXPLICABLE reason, he seemed to enjoy spending time with her too.

Go figure.

So what kind of fool would she be, if she blew what was slowly (and somewhat shockingly) turning out to be the one TRULY promising relationship she'd had in years, simply because of a thirty second (post coital) conversation that they'd had almost a month ago?

A huge one, that's what kind.

So she was thinking that maybe if she just let things roll along as they were now . . . the really good sex interspersed with the intimate conversation, and the nice quiet times curled up on the couch . . . that they might (simply by accident) actually fall in love.

Worse things could . . . and did . . . happen every day.

And if she got her heart broken in the end, if it turned out that they didn't want the same things, that her affection for him would grow stronger than his would ever be for her, well . . . she bit her lip . . . that would be okay.

Really.

She'd certainly cried into her pillow over men far less worthy than Aaron Hotchner. And already, even with what they had now, just spending these nights with him she was happier than she'd been in months.

Maybe even a few years.

And hell, the bottom line was, every relationship from the beginning of time, had to start somewhere. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.

So why couldn't theirs start right here?

/*/*/*/*/*

On Wednesday afternoon they were called out on the case that had been rattling Hotch when he came over for dinner the night before. It was a mass abduction up in a small resort town high up on the western side of the Rockies. A bachelorette party . . . up for a long week of drinking and late season skiing on the remaining snow trails . . . had been reported missing. Eight women taken, two bodies dumped so far. The first is what had dropped the case into their lap.

The second one is what put them on the plane.

The first victim's name was Jessica Ramsay. In life she'd been a gang unit detective working the southside of Chicago.

There was no way she would have rolled over and taken anything from anyone. Her nude body was found dangling early Tuesday morning from one of the local ski lifts.

The lift operator had to be hospitalized for shock.

The detective had been almost unrecognizable from the pretty face of her official credentials. She'd been horrifically beaten from head to toe by something heavy with a sharp point . . . possibly a tire iron.

Maybe a pickaxe.

Either way that's what had been used to rape her too.

The second body didn't demonstrate quite so much rage in the killing . . . more likely the victim had been somewhat more docile . . . but she'd still been beaten to death.

And something pointy had still been involved in the rape.

The tension on the flight out was palpable. It was already a bad case, and they were all preparing themselves for it to get much worse.

After they landed, it was three hours from the airport, driving up switchbacks, before they'd even reached the sheriff's station.

For geography alone the case had already started to kick their ass.

And after a day of humping around in the snow from dump site to dump site and interview to interview, on Thursday night they finally got a break in the case. A single pubic hair pulled off the exposed shin bone of Detective Ramsay, led to a DNA match on a convicted rapist from the Reno area.

A rapist who just happened to have a dead uncle with a hunting cabin, deep in the woods. This was their guy.

They knew it.

So the team headed out with as much backup as they could get that late in the day, that far up in the world. Seven extra cops instead of seventeen.

Two of them were seasonal deputies.

It wasn't ideal . . . it wasn't two heavily armed street savvy tactical units . . . but it was still a decent ratio of good guys to bad. But unfortunately, given the terrain, it was still also a lot of ground to cover. They needed people around the cabin, around the property, back in the trees, and at the front door conducting the raid.

And there just weren't enough of them to go around.

But the clock was ticking. The UNSUB had already dumped two bodies . . . one a day since the women had been snatched . . . so any delay in their raid was likely to cost another life. They had to go in with the army they had.

Emily's bad feeling was getting worse.

She and Spencer were assigned to cover respectively, the left and right rear corners of the property. Their backs were to the dense forest, and the sun had already set. Their closest backup was a hell of a lot farther than a stone's throw away.

Hell, Emily could barely even see Reid standing on the other side of the yard.

The goosebumps were already running along her spine.

But they had a job to do, and they needed to get it done quickly. So they all got into position, waiting for the crackle on the radio saying that Hotch and the sheriff were going in the front door.

But then suddenly Emily heard something moving in the trees.

She spun around, and the second that she did . . . she was tackled from the other side.

SHIT!

Before she knew what was happening, she'd flown face first into the new snow, her gun tumbling far ahead of her body as the wind was completely knocked out of her.

She was down.

Fortunately she knew that Reid saw it happen. Because even as she was trying to suck in a half a breath, she heard him screaming into the radio. His words were getting closer as he ran across a property that was suddenly much bigger than it had even seemed before.

But she knew that she couldn't wait for him to get close enough to take a shot in the dark . . . she could be dead by then . . . so she jammed her elbow up, hitting the UNSUB square in the ribs.

He retaliated by calling her a filthy bitch and punching her in the back of the head.

Her vision filled with stars . . . so much so that she almost blacked out. And then he hit her again.

That time her face cracked down onto a rock under the snow.

SON OF A **BITCH**!

From far away she could hear Reid much closer now, screaming for him to let her go. To let her go or he'd shoot. If she'd had the oxygen in her lungs she would have screamed back for him to shoot anyway. There was no way that he was going to hit her by mistake.

The ONE benefit of getting your face pounded into the snow, was that she couldn't get down any flatter onto the ground if she tried.

Before she could even try to croak the words out, the pressure on her back was gone.

The UNSUB was gone.

Somebody had knocked him off of her.

And then there was a lot more yelling coming from a lot more directions. All directions. Boots were stomping through the snow and branches were cracking underneath.

Slowly, Emily rolled over and lifted her head. It was just in time to see through the shadows, Hotch and the UNSUB grappling on the ground.

Reid and one of the deputies . . . their closest backup . . . were just trying to stay out of the way.

And then Hotch got the UNSUB pinned beneath him.

His thighs locked down, and his arms twisted above his head. But rather than simply holding the man until the others could reach down and cuff him, Hotch went another way.

Down a much darker road.

His bare fist came flying up . . . and he socked the UNSUB square in the center of the face. Once . . . twice . . . three times.

Four.

Five.

Every hit on soft tissue. All in rapid succession. Blood was splattering. Bones crunching.

It was a brutal pounding.

And he actually, quite literally, BROKE the UNSUB's face. It was all very clear in the glow of the flashlights. Nose pulverized, teeth broken, lips split in half. The younger man was screaming and gagging. His blood was oozing down into the previously pristine white snow.

Hotch only stopped hitting him when Morgan screamed that it was enough, that he was down.

Funny . . . it hadn't occurred to Emily to do the same.

Still though, even if she hadn't thought to stop it . . . it was clearly a horrible sight.

Especially seeing it in the bouncing white glow of a half dozen Mag lights.

When Morgan and the LEOs pounced down on their, now _seriously_ fucked up suspect, Hotch fell backwards into the snow. Almost like a prize fighter hitting the stool.

But then he quickly pushed himself up and ran over to where she was still lying on the ground.

Emily stared up at him, slightly in a daze from not just the physical attack, but what had happened after.

That was a lot of shit to go down in thirty seconds.

Before she could form any sort of conscious thought about what all of that meant, Hotch was stooping down in front of her. His fingers immediately brushed over the small bloodied bump on her forehead.

That rock that she'd hit down under the snow.

"Are you okay?" He whispered, the panic clear in his tone. She nodded slowly, "yeah," and with his help pushed back herself up to her knees, brushing the melting ice crystals off her chest as she did so.

Then she winced and huffed out a slightly pained breath.

"Just a scratch on my head. And kind of got the wind knocked out of me."

Hotch's expression tightened as he put his hand out to help Emily to her feet. And with the UNSUB still screaming behind them, he pulled her up.

And though he immediately let go of her hand, he made no move to step away from her.

They were only inches apart.

When Emily looked up, still sucking in her slow and deliberate breaths, trying to get the oxygen flowing evenly again, her eyes widened in alarm.

Hotch was no longer looking at her, he was looking over her shoulder. Staring down again at the UNSUB some feet away.

There was murder in his eyes.

It was a blackness that Emily had only seen a few times before. His jaw was like granite, and one of his fists was clenched so tightly that she could see his nails had gouged into the skin. A tiny trickle of blood was running out of his palm.

A droplet fell down into the snow.

Her eyes started to burn. And she so badly wanted to reach out and take that bloodied hand. To slide her fingers into his, to show him that she really was just fine. That all she needed was a Band-Aid.

That he didn't need to do any of those terrible things that she could see that he wanted to do.

But they weren't in a position to engage in any personal touchy feely. Not with half the team and half dozen cops around. So instead of taking his fingers like she wanted (hell, needed) to do, she put her hand high up on his chest.

"You did enough," she murmured, her voice too low for anyone else to hear, "you saved me and you can let it go now. Please let it go, Aaron. For me."

It took a second, but somehow she got through to him.

His eyes snapped down to hers.

The storm clouds were still there, but then suddenly something in them shifted. The rage falling away to show something tender and soft, something that could make a girl's knees weak.

Even a girl like her.

But then his look hardened again. Though it was nowhere near as frightening as it had been before. Before Emily could say anything more, JJ had run up. She was asking if Emily was okay, and then Dave was yelling for Hotch. Telling him that he needed to get into the cabin.

Telling him that they'd found the women.

For a moment Hotch looked torn, like he didn't know his place. But then Dave called for him again, and Hotch's mask slammed back down.

The softness was gone.

After muttering for JJ to get her checked out by the paramedics, he turned and ran back towards the cabin.

Emily's jaw twitched as she watched him go.

And though JJ was trying to get her to walk back out to the road and the ambulance that they'd had on standby, Emily ignored her for a moment. Her gaze had locked down on the trampled snow.

Hotch's footprints.

Until that moment it hadn't occurred to her that their relationship might have any actual ramifications for their work in the field. After all, Hotch was very protective of his people anyway, so she hadn't expected to notice any real difference in his behavior towards her personally. And really, thinking about what had happened, what he had done . . . and what he'd almost done . . . there actually wasn't much of a difference in his behavior towards her now either.

It was the behavior on her _behalf_ that had changed.

Though she'd seen glimpses of that rage slip out of him before, it was only ever a glimpse, and only ever in an interview room. A situation where he'd needed to tap into the darkness, to help him connect to whatever monster was lurking down in there. Tonight he'd jumped down into it to knock the monster off her back.

And he'd come out with a monkey on his.

As JJ finally started dragging her along, mumbling nervously about her maybe being in shock, Emily's hand came up to scrub across her mouth.

Christ . . . her eyes started to sting . . . this was going to be bad. Really, really bad.

Shit.

/*/*/*/*/

It only took the EMT three minutes to check Emily's vitals, patch up the little cut on her forehead, and again deem her 'fit' for duty. So she went back to work.

This time helping the half dozen traumatized women who were being pulled out of the root cellar of the cabin.

They were all half naked, duct tape still wrapped around their wrists and hanging from their ankles. It was obvious that they had all been raped, including the bride to be. And initial witness statements indicated that they'd all seen their friend, the lady detective, get butchered right in front of them. Victim number two they'd heard screaming in the bedroom above their little torture chamber.

No happy endings for anyone.

The team included.

This was one of those cases that was going to stay with them. And it didn't help Emily's particular worries about Hotch's mental state . . . or their relationship for that matter . . . when he went out of his way to avoid her for the rest of their time at the crime scene.

Not that they didn't both have things to do . . . six victims to counsel, six agents to do the counseling, no waiting for anyone . . . but it was still very obvious that he was making sure to keep his distance. And she didn't know if it was because he was upset with her, upset with himself, or just upset about the whole fucking mess.

No matter how you interpreted it, it was one giant cluster.

One that continued even back at the sheriff's office. Hotch went off on his own to file his field report about the prisoner's injuries, and then he caught a ride back to their inn with one of the deputies going off duty. The only person that he told he was leaving, was JJ.

And that's only because she banged into him when he trying to slip out the back door.

The one fortunate development that night . . . and 'fortunate' was being used very loosely here . . . was that it had begun to snow again as they were taking the women in to the small clinic on the outskirts of the ski town.

Fresh, slippery, powder, made the switchbacks far too treacherous to even consider trying to drive down the mountain until morning light. Which meant that they had to spend another night at the local inn.

And _that_ was the fortunate news.

Though ordinarily Emily would be raring to get on the jet and get home to sleep in her own bed, given what had happened . . . and how Hotch was behaving . . . she was thrilled that they were staying another night. Because on the jet, the things in Hotch's brain would have continued to fester. And maybe by the time they got home . . . and she'd stalked him back to his apartment . . . it would have been too late to save him.

But now she could pin him down. Now she could try and find out what the hell was going through that tortured soul of his. But of course she already knew the basics.

Nothing good.

So after she got back to her room at the rustic mountaintop inn . . . and that was after she'd assured the rest of the team for the tenth time that she was feeling "just fine" . . . she changed out of her damp clothes and into a pair of warm, dry, pink and white plaid flannel pajamas. Then she went in search of a man that she knew in that moment wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Fortunately, for privacy's sake, the team's room assignments had been somewhat scattered throughout the inn. There had really been just enough rooms still available to allow all of them to get their own. So Emily stepped out of her room on the fourth floor with a thin hoodie hanging from her shoulders . . . the place was drafty . . . and headed down the hall, and then the back staircase, with her room key, her phone and her gun.

Never leave home without them.

When she arrived down on the third floor, she turned left to get to Hotch's room at the far end of the wing. And though she wanted to stop and take a breath before she knocked, she didn't.

She just plowed into it.

Though there was no surprise when Hotch refused to answer. She had to figure he'd looked through the peephole and seen that it was her. As though simply ignoring her presence meant that she would go away.

Please.

Nobody shook her off that easily. All she did was take out her cell phone and text him a message.

_I'll sleep out here if I have to._

On its face, not necessarily the most professional text for an FBI account. But one that could easily be chalked up as referring to a stakeout, and not a lover's quarrel.

Either way though, it was at least enough to get him to open the damn door.

When it swung back, Emily could see that Hotch too was dressed for bed. Though also wearing a light zip up hoodie.

Again, the place was drafty.

"Are you going to let me in?" She asked quietly, her eyes locked onto his, "or are you not going to speak to me again until we get home?"

Hotch stared down at Emily for a moment, his jaw tight as he took in the soft lines around her eyes . . . she looked tired . . . and the small bandage over her left brow.

Where she'd been shoved down onto the rock.

Finally he stepped back, holding his arm out.

Though at that moment he had no desire to talk to her, or even to see her, he knew that the woman was serious about sleeping out in the hall.

She was stubborn like that.

When Hotch moved back, Emily immediately slipped by him with a brush of her fingers over his stomach. Partly she did it because she needed to have that contact, and partly she did it as a test.

To confirm that she was still _allowed_ to touch him.

And if she felt him tense up slightly when her fingers pressed into his flesh, well, maybe that was just a reflex reaction.

Maybe he wasn't trying to break her heart.

"Put the chain on," she instructed softly while pausing to push off her untied sneakers, "I'm staying."

Then she walked over to slip her gun and cell phone out of the pocket of her hoodie. She placed both items on the nightstand opposite where Hotch had left his own gun and phone. The image of those four items made her inexplicably sad. Her mind was wandering, and it was wandering to places that did no one any good at all.

Her gaze shifted back to see Hotch looking down at her, his hands clenched into tight fists.

His eyes were so sad that she wanted to weep.

And though her instinct was to go over and give him a hug, she knew he'd just turn away if she tried. So instead she pulled back the covers and climbed up onto the mattress.

Then she put her hand out to him.

"Come to bed, Aaron," she whispered, "please."

He stared for another moment before finally taking a breath. Then he walked over to the foot of the bed.

Though she'd flipped the blankets back, still he paused again, standing there looking down at her.

Just looking broken.

Seeing him like that made her stomach hurt. And part of her was expecting him to ask her to go and leave him to wallow in peace. Not that she had any intention of doing such a thing.

But she wouldn't have been surprised by the request.

But then finally he let out a soft sigh . . . it was unmistakably one of resignation . . . and walked around to the other side of the bed.

He climbed in.

But he didn't look at her though . . . and he stayed far over on his own side. There was a gap of almost three feet separating them.

Basically nearly the whole width of the mattress.

And that hurt a little. Okay . . . she blinked away the tears pricking her eyes . . . it hurt a lot. It was the first time since they'd begun sharing a bed, that he hadn't immediately reached for her.

That he hadn't wanted to touch her.

And suddenly she was very frightened, whatever confidence she'd that she'd be able to 'handle' him out this mood, shattered.

When she was walking down the stairs, she'd been sure that just them being alone together would be enough. That his defenses would immediately fall as they always did now. He would stop being distant Hotch . . . he would just be Aaron again.

_Her_ Aaron.

But her Aaron wasn't there in that bed. Because her Aaron would have reached for her. He would have cuddled her close and he would asked if her head was hurting, and did she want him to go get her an aspirin. And she would have said no, that she was fine, but she would have loved that he asked anyway.

That he cared.

And it wasn't that now she doubted his depth of affection . . . his reaction out at the cabin was proof enough of that at least . . . but more that she doubted he was still capable of demonstrating it to her.

He was shutting down.

It was strange, in that moment of pure fright when Hotch couldn't have been farther away emotionally, she couldn't have felt more vested in him. It was like they had been summersaulted into a "real" relationship. The kind not made up solely of sexy lingerie at the door and light hearted banter under the covers, but one that also encompassed genuine pain and trauma.

And horrible depression.

The shitty stuff that nobody wants to deal with. The stuff that makes people walk away. But that's where they were. They'd turned onto a hard road.

One that she hadn't been prepared to walk down. Not now.

Not yet.

Because she didn't know her way through this neighborhood. It had been years since she'd felt this emotionally attached to another person. Her eyes began to water as a tightness filled her chest.

And she just didn't know how to make things better.

So for a few minutes they just lay there, the tension filling the air, neither looking at the other. The only sound for Emily was that of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. The more the seconds ticked passed, the more the panic was rising up. Panic that things really were broken between them.

That she was going to lose him.

And not just the Aaron that cuddled up with her on the couch, or waited on her hand and foot after every round of sex, rough or otherwise, but also the Aaron that had been watching her back these last few years. The one with whom she'd spent countless hours keeping each other's spirits up while doing paperwork, and bouncing theories off one another. All semblance of their intimate relationship, or collegial friendship, it would be gone. Poisoned.

Ruined.

That thought was finally enough to break her paralysis. She couldn't let it all evaporate like that . . . because of a stumble in the woods. So she took a deep breath, her gaze remaining focused on the crossed wooden beams of the ceiling far above the bed. There was a cobweb up there, it was dangling down over them like a transparent diamond. Vaguely she wondered where the spider had gone. Then she slowly exhaled.

"Do you blame me for what happened in the woods?" she whispered, trying to keep the tears out of her voice.

It took a moment, one where she thrice swallowed over the lump forming in her throat, but then finally she heard his response.

"No."

It was a soft murmur, but she was trained to spot lies and the liars that told them . . . he sounded sincere.

Or at least she wanted him to be.

"Okay then," her voice still soft as she rolled onto her side, the faint moisture in her eyes now beginning to pool. "If you don't blame me, then why are you punishing me?"

Hotch turned then, his eyes snapping over to hers in surprise.

"I'm not."

A tear spilled over and ran down Emily's temple. It soaked into the pillow beneath her head.

"Then why won't you talk to me?" She whispered in confusion, "or touch me? Because I'm here Aaron, I'm right here," she bit her lip, "but you're a million miles away." Her voice started to get thick, "and I feel like you're not coming back," another tear slipped out, "or at least not coming back to me."

Emily's voice broke on the last word, and Hotch closed his eyes. Hearing her in pain was like a knife in the gut. He was hurting her.

That had never been his intention.

But this was one of the pitfalls . . . though perhaps other people would say _benefits_ . . . of having a woman in his life again. Once again he had somebody who actually gave a shit about him.

Somebody who cared that he was in pain.

And he wanted to tell her not to. That he was too fucked up to bother with. And then he wanted to tell her to go back to her room, and to lock her door, and he would see her on the plane . . . but he couldn't do that.

Because he cared too.

Though he hadn't planned it . . . and had most particularly not DESIRED it . . . somehow Emily Prentiss had gotten under his skin in a way that she never had been before. And he didn't have it in him to send her away. Because he knew that he'd be sending her off to cry alone in her room. Which would make all of this so much worse.

For both of them.

So he swallowed, and dug down deep. Dug down below his own pain and confusion . . . and abject horror . . . over what had happened in those woods. Over what he had done.

And then he opened his eyes.

Emily was staring at him.

His gaze stayed locked on hers for a few seconds, trying to again remind the commitment burned parts of himself, that this woman was a safe place . . . she would keep his secrets.

And she would never betray him.

Once that point was again clear in both his head and his heart . . . it was hard keeping them connected tonight . . . he reached out, the tip of his index finger gently stroking along her cold cheek. This was the moment . . . but still he couldn't look at her. His eyes fell shut again. His voice shattered.

"I was going to kill him."

And that was the bloody truth of it. He'd beaten that man to a pulp not because he'd raped and murdered those women, but because he'd jumped on Emily's back and smashed her face into the ground. Hotch had seen it happen. He'd been running across the yard, his flashlight beam bouncing on the scene in front of him. He'd seen her head snap, and heard her scream in pain. That bastard was hurting her. He'd hurt his Emily. And that . . . to Hotch's warped mind . . . was immediately a death penalty offense. Not the rape and torture of those women, but that he'd smashed his lover's face into the ground.

How fucked up was that?

"But you _didn't_ kill him, Aaron" Emily immediately countered, her hand coming up to catch Hotch's fingers as they fell from her cheek. It was the hand with the scraped knuckles.

The irony there was not lost on her.

"You walked away. You had the thought, but you didn't act on it. You didn't do anything wrong. And you needed to get him under control, so hitting him was right. It was just. And you have to trust me on this, and you know that you should. Because you know that I've never lied to you. I always tell you the truth."

And she always had . . . even when he didn't want to hear it. And seeing Hotch's eyes slowly open again, Emily gave him a sad, watery, smile. Then she kissed the back of his hand.

Kissed those battered fingers.

"And the truth here is," she murmured against his skin, "if he'd hurt you, I would have broken his face too."

Hotch's eyes immediately filled with tears.

"But I don't want that for you Emily," he whispered back, his voice breaking, "I don't want you to be like me."

"It's too late," Emily reached out with her free hand to cup his cheek, "I already am like you. And I was long before we met. So you can't fix what's wrong in me, any more than I can fix what's wrong in you. But if you want," another tear spilled over and her voice cracked, "maybe we could just try to be broken together."

Feeling a sob threatening to rise up, Hotch sucked in a ragged breath.

This had been his fear that night in the bar. That the reason they connected then . . . the reason they connected now . . . was because something terrible had happened to her too. That their scars were what bound them. And even after he'd found the marks on her thigh, he'd continued to pray that he was wrong about how they had gotten there. That she hadn't been hurt like him.

So much for that.

He pushed himself up, leaning over to give Emily a kiss. It was salty and sad . . . and filled with so much regret. But still it gave him comfort.

More than he deserved.

And when he pulled back, he had his arm around her waist.

He pulled her with him.

Emily cuddled against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder as she wiped her hand across her face. The other one was pressed over his heart. And so he fixed the blankets around her back and wrapped his arm tighter, holding her as close as he could. They were quiet for a moment, and then Emily sniffled.

"Do you think someday we can be better than this?"

Hotch took a deep breath, his eyes locked onto a large spider scurrying along the beam far above the bed. He slowly exhaled.

"I have no idea."

* * *

_A/N 2: Now THIS leads them into New York. I wanted some rearing of angst and uncertainty before they even got there. Because things were going along too well. Like they were just going to sleep together for a few weeks and then BAM, everybody's happy and in love. It wasn't going to work that way. There is a reason that they're both very attractive, very SINGLE people. They have "issues." And here, at this point, they have only a few weeks of genuine bonding to drag them over the pot holes. It's a rough road. But it wouldn't be any fun to write (or read) if it was all glass slippers and happily ever afters :)_


	10. Come Back To Me

**Author's Note:** We are finally heading into New York in this chapter. But it's NOT canon, not at all, so though some events will be 'inspired' by the season 3, Hotch Goes Boom, finale, these should not in any way be considered that storyline, or missing scenes therein. If you want to read some missing scenes based on canon, I have some in the main Girl story. For what happens in _this_ story, please just go with whatever's on the page :) I only mention the episode for the sake of maybe some visuals/characters that you might recognize, but all mishmashed together with my own version of the case that brought them to that state.

And this is safe for work (given all the sex to date, I feel the need to clarify that per chapter), but, as can be inferred from the title, this is really heavy. We're also about six weeks into their relationship.

Lastly, we'll be taking a turn or two in upcoming events (perhaps outside of where some of you might have thought we'd be going), so, heads up ;)

* * *

**Prompt Set #48 (April & May 2013)**

Show: Lost

Title Challenge: Because You Left

* * *

**Come Back To Me**

Emily awoke early Friday morning to find Hotch already awake and sitting on the end of the bed.

He had his head in his hands.

Feeling her stomach begin churning again, she pushed the blankets back and crawled down to his still form. Determined to prevent that catastrophic rift from forming once more . . . though he'd barely spoken the night before, he'd kept the cuddle until they fell asleep . . . she wrapped her arms around him from behind, and rested her head on his shoulder.

"You should be sleeping," she murmured.

"I couldn't," Hotch whispered back, "woke up around three." Then he sighed as his hand came up to cover the one she had resting on his stomach.

"You should probably be going back to your room now."

Her head twisted to check the alarm clock by the bed.

"It's barely five, I have time," she patted his chest with her free hand, "come lie down with me for a bit." Then she nuzzled his shoulder, "it might make you feel a little better."

Ideally this would be a day where they could start things off with a quickie . . . God, if ever he'd needed the release, it was now . . . but she still wasn't feeling a hundred percent down there. Yesterday was the first day that it hadn't stung when she'd peed, so she figured that the actual abrasions had finally healed, but she also knew that it would be a couple more days before any physical activity would be 'advisable.' A cuddle would still help him though. Just as long as she could keep him close, then she could keep him from drifting away.

That was her hope anyway.

Hotch sat there for a moment, still slumped over with his hand covering Emily's. Then he sighed and patted her wrist.

"Okay."

He supposed it couldn't make him feel any worse than he already did . . . but he didn't want to say that.

It would just hurt her feelings.

So instead he shifted back silently and pulled his legs up onto the bed. A few seconds later he found himself in the same position he'd fallen asleep in six hours earlier.

Staring up at the ceiling, Emily laying on his chest . . . his arm wrapped around her waist.

And though his feelings for her were strong, strong enough now that they were beginning to overwhelm him . . . okay _she_ was beginning to overwhelm him . . . he really didn't want her there with him right then. Not that his upset was with her, not all.

It was with himself.

Last night though, her presence, her touch . . . her acceptance . . . it had given him a small measure of comfort. That wasn't the case today. Today it was just making him feel sad.

Or more to the point . . . he winced . . . sadder still.

Perhaps it was the sun streaming in around the drapes that made the difference. Or perhaps it was the _significance _of the sun streaming in around the drapes that made the difference.

A new day.

One where nothing had changed.

Not a damn thing. He was still an emotionally crippled son of a bitch who'd nearly beaten a man to death. And as much he wanted Emily's presence in his bed to somehow change that fact . . . it didn't. Last night it had been enough just to know that she didn't hate him for what he'd done.

For who he was.

But that wasn't helping anymore. Nothing was going to help him . . . nobody could. His eyes started to burn.

Not even her.

Still though, he tried for a few minutes longer to get back to that place where they were before . . . he tried for her sake. But remembering what he'd lost . . . that connection with her that had meant so very much to him . . . it was just making him feel worse.

The tightness in his chest was increasing.

So finally he took a breath . . . as deep as he could manage, which wasn't much . . . and rolled over, pinning Emily beneath him.

For a moment he stared into her eyes.

They were soft and kind . . . and worried. So very worried. And seeing her concern, the tears he was trying to fight off, began to pool. His control was further eroded when he saw the same salty pools begin to mirror in her eyes. They were born of sympathy, and kindness . . . and yes . . . love.

Love was definitely there too.

He could see it in the way that she looked at him, feel it in the way her fingertips were caressing his cheek, and finally, he could hear it in her voice. The way that she said his name.

"Aaron."

So much sadness there . . . and so many possibilities. He leaned down . . . and he kissed her.

It was hard and passionate, and he poured everything that he could into it. It was a thank you for accepting him as he was, and trying to help him get better. And it was a goodbye . . . because she couldn't.

Last night had been a terrible setback for him. Worse even than the day in the prison with Reid. Another day where he'd nearly beaten a man to death. But this was two incidents now in three months.

He needed to get this shit under control before he actually killed someone.

And he knew that he wouldn't be able to make his peace with what had happened . . . and figure out the right path to move forward to STOP it from happening again . . . as long as Emily was around.

She'd be a crutch.

Acceptance was a wonderful thing . . . except when it wasn't. And right now, her desire to help him deal with his depression, and his anger, was making things worse.

She needed to go.

And seeing her expression when he finally broke away, he knew that she understood what was happening. She whispered his name again, "Aaron," though that time it was followed by a desperate "_please_." And then she started to cry. He kissed her again.

"I'll be okay," he murmured against her lips, his eyes watering as he pulled back.

"But I need you to go back to your room now, sweetheart. We need to take a break."

*/*/*/*/*

On the flight home, Emily tucked herself into a single seat on one end of the jet . . . Hotch did the same on the other. Neither of them spoke a word the entire flight, but that didn't exactly raise any eyebrows.

Because nobody was to talking anyone.

The case alone had been horrible, the attack on Emily unsettling, and Hotch's reaction to her attack . . . unnerving.

Everybody was off in their own little worlds.

Still though, Emily could see them all pretending to sleep, pretending to read . . . pretending that everything in their fucked up lives, was completely normal in its usual fucked up way.

That's what she was doing too.

And if her eyes kept getting a little watery as she turned the pages of her book, well, that was nobody's business. All she was trying to do was get through the flight without anybody noticing that she was on the verge of a complete breakdown, and asking what was wrong.

Because she had no answer to that question.

At least not one that she could share with her colleagues . . . except Hotch of course. But he already knew what was wrong. He was pushing her away.

Again.

And though she hated that he was trying to deal with these things by himself . . . he was being so stubborn . . . she was at least slightly comforted by the realization that it was Friday.

Which meant that he would be getting Jack tonight.

She was thinking that time with his little boy was probably just what he needed to help break him out of this funk. And then on Sunday . . . God willing . . . her body would be fully healed. And no matter what his mood was today . . . and how hard he was trying to push her off . . . she knew that he wouldn't turn down sex.

Especially now.

And she was sure that if she could just get that intimacy with him again, that she could fix this break.

Her eyes started to burn again.

And she if she couldn't . . . then God help her, she didn't know what she was going to do. Because the possibility of losing him like this . . . so soon, and so abruptly . . . it had never occurred to her. Another tear slipped down her cheek.

And it was breaking her heart.

*/*/*/*/*

With the time change, they landed back in Quantico early Friday afternoon. As they undid their seatbelts, Hotch spoke the only words he had for the entire trip.

"Everybody go home. We're off rotation until Monday."

And then he picked up his bag, and walked out. And though Emily's heart wanted to run after him, her head knew that it would be a pointless endeavor.

And a spectacle to boot.

No, she was going to respect his wishes and give him a little bit of space. A very little.

She wasn't allowing much.

Just until Sunday.

Emily had decided . . . somewhere over Kentucky . . . that if he didn't show up on Sunday afternoon as their schedule 'dictated', then she'd go to his place. But she was really hoping that he would come over on his own. That she wouldn't have to bust down his door.

She bit back a sigh as she slipped her bag onto her shoulder.

Because that would just get ugly.

*/*/*/*/*

Sunday morning Emily took a long, hot bath, carefully washing all of her sensitive bits to make sure that she was completely healed from the previous week's activities.

Everything seemed good.

So after she'd dried off, she wrapped herself up in her old flannel bathrobe . . . the one Hotch had collected for her their first night back home . . . and stood in the middle of her bedroom.

She was trying to decide how to dress.

It wasn't a day like their others. And she didn't think any of the 'skin baring' outfits were appropriate to meet him at the door in. Things were too solemn right now. So she went in and opened the lingerie drawer.

And then she closed it again.

She opened the one above it and took out a plain white tank top . . . it was ribbed and tight fitting . . . and in the drawer above that, she pulled out a pair of pink and grey plaid pajama pants.

Loose, with a drawstring.

She pulled on the outfit without underwear or a bra.

Then she went back into the bathroom and put her hair up in a loose bun before applying a bit of mascara and brushing on a light coat of powder, and then a little blush.

After she was done, she looked at herself in the mirror, and nodded at her reflection.

Perfect.

Then she went downstairs to wait. Except . . . Hotch didn't show up. And he always showed by one fifteen at the latest, so at one thirty she tried calling him.

The phone rang three times before he answered . . . though at first he didn't say anything. And then finally there was a slow exhale.

"I can't talk right now."

His words were barely audible, but still she heard them clear as day. The fingers of her free hand tightened into a fist.

Her eyes started to sting.

"But Aaron . . ."

And he cut her off, though his tone was gentle.

"Not today Emily. I'm sorry, I can't."

And he hung up the phone.

For a moment she stared down at it buzzing in her hand. Her jaw twitched and she blinked. And though part of knew that the wisest course of action was to just drown her sadness in ice cream and chick flicks . . . she would at least get the tears out . . . she couldn't do that.

She couldn't leave him alone.

So she went upstairs and pulled on her sneakers and a black zip up hoodie. Then she came back down, picked up her keys and her gun, and headed out the door.

The break was over whether he liked it or not.

*/*/*/*/*

Emily had only been to Hotch's apartment once before. A couple weeks earlier she'd gone with him one night when he went over to pick up a clean suit.

She'd just wanted to see the place.

The furniture was minimal and plain, and purely functional. There was nothing warm or cozy about it. Against the walls . . . which were bare and white . . . there were stacks of unopened boxes, with the contents neatly labeled in black magic marker. And though there were a couple of pictures of Jack on the shelves, there were no paintings on the walls or curtains in the windows. The one genuinely bright spot in the living room . . . a bit of color and character and life . . . was the toy box in the corner.

Jack's space.

But it was so tiny.

The whole visit, short though it may have been, had made her feel sad. Because she could then see how stuck Hotch really was. That he had been forced out of his home and into this little white box. And he wasn't unpacking, or decorating, or anything like that, because he hadn't been ready to have a new home.

He'd still been missing his old one.

But he wasn't getting that one back. So instead he was living in this limbo state. And she'd wanted to think of some way to help him to move forward and out of that rut. At the time she couldn't think of anything . . . how do you REALLY help someone start an entirely new life . . . so she had to settle for just cuddling him close when they got back to her place. It was all that she could do for him.

And he hadn't even known what she was doing.

But now here she was, back again at this sad space, barely two weeks later. This time she paused for a moment in the hallway, thinking about her best approach. What she should say.

How big a scene she was willing to make.

Finally she bit her lip . . . and raised her fist. Two quick raps on the wooden door . . . and then she waited.

A second later she heard movement, and then locks turning . . . she sucked in a breath . . . and then the door was open.

He was there.

And he was there looking so sexy in his tight white t-shirt and blue jeans . . . her gaze flickered down . . . and bare feet, that it made the little butterflies float through her stomach.

His eyebrow was raised in surprise.

And even though he'd sent her away three short days ago . . . and hung up on her twenty short minutes ago . . . she was about to step forward and kiss him. Because hell, fuck it, he was gorgeous.

And he was still more hers than anyone else's.

But then suddenly she heard another set of footsteps. And then a little body appeared beside the bigger one.

An adorable little mini-me . . . he was even wearing the blue jeans.

Jack.

"Who'sit daddy?" He whispered shyly from just behind Hotch's leg, his words a bit of a little boy mumble.

Emily felt the heat begin to rise on her face. Because she'd just realized the true meaning of Hotch's words on the phone . . . _why_ he couldn't talk.

Jack would have been two inches away.

Her eyes snapped up and locked onto his. But just when she opened her mouth to apologize for her terrible intrusion . . . and complete misread of the situation . . . she was preempted by Hotch's response to his son.

"It's just daddy's friend buddy," he threw down to his side, "a nice lady." Then he twisted slightly to take his son's hand . . . one little eye was poking out from behind Hotch's thigh.

"This is Miss Emily," he continued softly with a squeeze of the small fingers, "can you say, hi?"

Jack's head popped out for a split second.

"Hi."

And then most of him disappeared again.

Emily's expression softened as she stooped down slightly to give the little boy a gentle smile.

"Hi sweetie."

Then her gaze snapped back up to Hotch's again.

"I'm sorry," she cleared her throat awkwardly as she came back to her feet, "I didn't realize that um, uh . . . sorry." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

"I'll go."

She'd only taken a half a step before Hotch called her name.

"Emily, wait."

And she turned back to see him putting his finger up.

"One second."

Then he turned and leaned down to his son.

"Buddy, you go play with your fire truck for a minute. Daddy will be right back."

Then he patted Jack on the butt, and sent him off towards the living room. And once he was sure that his son was going where instructed . . . yes . . . Hotch stepped out into the hall.

He closed the door behind him.

When he turned around he saw that Emily's head was down and her eyes were locked onto the scuffed floor. She was standing so close though that he could smell the rose oil that she used for her bath, and that expensive perfume that he liked so much. And those feelings that he'd been struggling with for the last week . . . since a little before his birthday . . . began to rise up once again.

For a moment . . . a long moment . . . he stared down at her, feeling a wave of conflicting emotions running through him. Affection, desire, anxiety . . . sadness.

Longing.

Longing was a big one. And there was also tug of protectiveness in his gut. It was seeing her posture. Realizing then, that she thought that he was angry with her.

He wasn't.

So he put his hand out and lifted her chin. Her head slowly came up . . . their eyes locked. Hers were wide with a faint panic.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered with a faint shake of her head, "I misunderstood what you were saying. I didn't mean to intrude on your day with him."

Hotch's brow creased as his arm fell back to his side.

"It's okay. I just didn't realize that's why you were calling. That you'd been expecting me today." Then he continued with a faint note of confusion.

"I thought I'd explained the other day, that we need to take a break."

"Right," Emily cut in, her voice starting to get thick, "but I thought you just meant a few days. And it's been a few days. And we have our standing thing on Sunday, so I thought I'd see you today. I was um," she swallowed, her fingers curling into a fist, "I was just worried about you. I thought you were alone," she gave him a sad smile, "and I didn't want you to be alone."

"I appreciate that Emily," Hotch responded gently, "I do, but this is something that I have to deal with by myself." He shook his head sadly, "you can't help me."

Emily's eyes started to burn. Everything she tried with him . . . he just pushed her further away. So she tried the last approach she had available.

Sex.

"But I can help you. Like before, up in Connecticut, when we helped each other." She bit her lip, "I . . . I'm feeling better you know," she made a general gesture to her pelvic area, "so you could come over tomorrow night." Her mouth twisted in a sad smile.

"I miss you."

Feeling an ache in his chest, Hotch's eyes fell shut.

"I miss you too," he responded softly, and then his eyes opened as he shook his head.

"But I can't see you tomorrow. It's just not a good idea for us to get together right now."

Though 'no strings' sex had been the basis for their first couplings . . . getting together solely for decompression . . . if Hotch knew anything of the world, he knew that their relationship had moved beyond that a few weeks ago.

Sex meant much more now than it did had before.

And though it was clear that his rejection was hurting her . . . and he hated that . . . he knew that sex was a bad idea. There were some things in his head that he needed to get straight with, both as they related to her, and as they related to himself.

And three days had not been enough time.

Feeling an unexpected pang of grief as Hotch pushed her away yet again, Emily's eyes began to water. Then she pressed her fingertips to her mouth.

"Is this done?" She asked, her voice thick with emotion, "are _we_, done? Is that what you're trying to tell me? Because if it is, if you don't want to see me anymore, it would be easier," a tear spilled over, "if you'd just say it flat out."

Feeling a constriction around his chest, Hotch stared down for a moment. His eyes had widened slightly in surprise.

"Is that what you want?" He asked softly, trying to hide his despair, "do you want to be done?"

The words had barely left his mouth before Emily was violently shaking her head.

"No!" she sobbed, "no, I don't want to be done! I just want you to let me help you!" And then she started to cry. "I just want it to be like it was last _week_!"

Hotch winced in pain.

Though it would have been easier for him . . . at least abstractly . . . if he could have kept his physical distance from Emily for this whole visit, he could never bear to see her crying. And as she buried her face in her hands, trying to smother her sobs, he took a step forward and pulled her to his chest.

"Yeah," he murmured with a kiss to her temple, "I want it to be like it was last week, too. But," he sighed, "it's not. And it's not going to be. But that's not on you, it's about me," he rubbed his hand down her back, "do you understand?"

"No," sniffled and rubbed her cheek on his shirt, "no, I really don't understand at all. I don't understand why you want to be alone. And I don't understand why you don't want to come over tomorrow." she stepped back, sniffling and wiping her hand under her nose.

"And why you didn't answer my question?" Her voice cracked, "Do you want to be done, or not?"

Hotch's lips curved in a sad smile.

"No," his eyes started to water, "I don't want to be done, Emily. But I do want to be better. And I know that you don't understand why, but I just need to get better by myself." He reached out and cupped her cheek.

"We'll talk next week."

*/*/*/*/*

Four days later all hell broke loose in New York. Within thirty-six hours a subway sniper had become a subway bomber. And though the NYPD had . . . on day one . . . formed a joint task force consisting of members of their own elite units, and the FBI's NY Field office, the violence continued unabated.

Seven dead in four attacks.

The team had been monitoring the case as part of the morning briefing, since the first LDSK victim was identified. But nobody asked for their help until day three of the spree.

That day the UNSUB took out a city tour bus. Thirteen dead, seventeen living victims . . . fourteen amputations. The victims were the wives and children of the UN delegation from South Africa.

In short, it was a diplomatic nightmare.

The team went wheels up . . . after Hotch received a personal call from the director himself . . . at two am Sunday morning. It had been eight days since Emily's visit to Hotch's apartment. She was still waiting for him to ask her to talk.

Because that's what he'd promised.

But instead she got to fly into what had become an urban war zone. A city . . . at that point . . . which was, quite literally, under siege. They were at Code Red, which meant chance of additional terror attack, 'imminent.'

Imminent.

There were on an island with eight MILLION potential victims, and there she got to watch Hotch tuck himself away with the head of the joint LDSK/Bomber task force, SSA Joyner.

Kate.

He called her Kate.

Hotch didn't call anyone by their first name, ever. He'd only started calling her "Emily" . . . _off_ duty only, mind you . . . after he'd stripped her naked three days in a row. Which meant that Emily very much did NOT wish to consider the reasons behind him calling Agent Joyner, "Kate" now.

Even a glancing consideration of those reasons made her feel sick.

Officially . . . according to Rossi . . . Hotch and Joyner had 'liased' back when Hotch had done a rotation through Scotland Yard a decade earlier. It was funny though, in all of their late night talks, Hotch had never mentioned that assignment to Emily. He'd mentioned working a case with the RCMP back in '03, and the BKA early in '01, but nothing about Scotland Yard.

Not a God damn thing.

And though Emily hated herself for feeling such a petty and stupid emotion as 'jealousy' in the middle of that shit storm they were working in, she couldn't help it. That was in part because Hotch had been avoiding her like the plague since they'd arrived, and in part because he was acting like a complete asshole to everybody else.

Okay . . . her jaw twitched as she jammed her finger down on the elevator button of the Grand Hyatt . . . maybe not an _asshole_, but there were some major _un_-Hotch'like tendencies in play.

One being the golden pedestal upon which "Kate," and all of her fabulous ideas, had been immediately elevated upon.

Every suggestion she made, was like the best idea Hotch had ever heard in his LIFE! And God forbid that anybody else on the team, or the entire freaking TASK force, dared to pose an alternate view point to Agent Joyner's . . . even though that's how they'd worked EVERY SINGLE CASE EVER(!) . . . this week he was brushing them all off like gnats.

It was unbelievable.

And then there was the thing last tonight with Morgan. He and Joyner had a major clash over allocation of manpower in the subways, and Hotch had taken Joyner's side.

In front of EVERYONE!

If Emily hadn't been there to see it herself, she wouldn't have believed it. It wasn't like him not to back his people. So whatever Hotch's relationship was with Joyner now . . . Emily shook her head . . . or whatever it had been before, the woman most definitely did NOT bring out Hotch's best qualities.

That alone, was reason enough for Emily to hate the woman's guts. But of course there was more.

There was the "Kate" thing.

And ANY other week, Emily would have backed Hotch into a supply closet and asked him what the fuck was going on . . . but not this week. Personal exchanges like that . . . in the midst of a case like _this_ . . . were completely verboten. So they were both being very professional and detached. "Prentiss" this and "yes, _sir_" that.

And again, whenever possible, he was avoiding her like the plague.

He'd actually had her partnered up . . . exclusively . . . with one of the NYPD detectives since they'd arrived two days ago.

Detective Cooper.

Nice guy . . . she felt a pang of sadness in her gut . . . good cop, but Emily had still been missing her own team.

She'd been missing Hotch.

And not just personally . . . as had been the case for over a week . . . but by then professionally too. Because he'd been partnering the two of them up pretty regularly, for the last couple of months. And that was WELL before they'd started sleeping together. When they were on the job, they had a good rhythm in their back and forth. A good rapport in their interviews.

They were just a good team, period.

At least they used to be.

But again . . . she stepped off the elevator and onto her floor . . . he had picked Joyner as his BFF for the week. And Emily just didn't know what that meant. Because he'd told her that he didn't want them to be done . . . but then he'd also told her that they would talk in a week.

And they didn't.

And then he had rediscovered the wonderful Kate . . . and pawned Emily off on one of the locals. So even if she hadn't known what she was stepping into, Emily wanted to knock the bitch on her ass for screwing things up even worse than they had been.

And they were pretty fucking bad to start.

But Emily would have been happy enough to try and shove the whole ugly, messy . . . painful . . . cluster out of her head until they got home, if not for what had happened that afternoon.

Detective Cooper had been shot.

Killed.

And though Emily felt sadness . . . and yes, some guilt . . . over his death, intellectually she knew that it wasn't her fault. There was nothing that she could have done. No bullet that she could have caught if she'd just moved a little faster.

Because it was the LDSK.

And he'd chosen which one of them was supposed to die, before she'd even known the bullet was in the air . . . she'd had no say in the matter.

Cooper had been standing a half a foot in front of her when it had happened. They were doing a re-canvass of one of the first neighborhoods to be hit by the pipe bombs. And they'd just walked out of a Starbucks in Alphabet City, when suddenly he'd fallen to the ground.

No noise, no brain matter . . . just a light splatter of blood on her face. The bullet went straight through his left eye.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

When the team arrived, Hotch had sprinted from the driver's side of his SUV to where she was standing by Cooper's body. At that point she still hadn't cleaned up . . . she hadn't left her guard post even after first backup arrived, he was still her responsibility . . . so she knew that even though she'd wiped her arm across her mouth, that the faint red spray was still visible on her face.

Hotch had run up yanking off his sunglasses . . . taken one look at her . . . and dragged her inside the coffee shop. With one hand on her elbow, he'd marched her back by the two terrified employees, and down to the two single stall bathrooms off the side corridor.

He picked the ladies room.

Once they were inside, he locked the door and walked her over to the sink. There he washed her face, and her hands, and scrubbed off the blood she'd wiped onto her sleeve, when she was wiping her face.

He didn't make eye contact once.

He didn't say word one, either. Not until he was done. Then he looked straight into her eyes, as his hands fell to her hips.

"I should have kept you with me."

That's all he'd said. And then he'd kissed her forehead . . . and let her go.

That was it. Then he'd unlocked the door, put his hand on her shoulder . . . and walked them back out to the crime scene.

Business as usual.

And she had NO idea what that MEANT! All she knew was from that moment on . . . two something in the afternoon . . . he'd had her attached to his hip. Unfortunately that meant she was now part of a triumvirate.

Joyner was their third side.

And if Hotch felt there was anything strange . . . or tense . . . about the three of them sharing an SUV, or making their canvasses together, he didn't let on. But Emily, for one, couldn't have been more fucking uncomfortable if she'd worked the rest of the day buck naked.

Hell . . . she ripped her pass card through the hotel lock . . . she would have probably preferred it! Because it had been painfully clear with every clipped word and icy stare, that Joyner wanted her hell and gone from their inner circle. And Hotch had her so turned around that she didn't know if she was coming or going. She just knew that she was tired, and sad, and confused . . . she pushed her door open . . . and stressed, and good Christ did she want a God damn drink. Fortunately after a dinner which had consisted of a quick . . . cold . . . slice of pizza, Rossi had slipped her and Morgan each two nips of Glen Fidditch.

A liquor store had been on his canvass route.

And so . . . she started pulling off her boot . . . after she'd stripped, the first thing she was going to do was mix herself up a little drink of whiskey and tap water. Not exactly service at the Ritz, but a girl on the road had to make do with what she had.

So she just kept yanking off her clothes, flinging them over into the general direction of her open suitcase.

She'd just finished unhitching her bra, when she heard a knock at the door.

Crap.

With a sigh she whipped her second best Victoria's secret demi-cup over to the suitcase before walking over to pick up her gun off the mattress. Then she went over to check the peep hole.

Hotch.

Of course.

The man avoids her for eleven days straight, the second she strips down to get into the shower . . . he knocks on the door. And she was just about to ask him to hold on for a second . . . she was going to go over and get some clothes . . . when she rolled her eyes.

'Break' or not, putting on any pretense of modesty with the man who had been her lover for the last six weeks, was completely asinine. So even though she was now wearing nothing but a small pair of black cotton briefs, she whipped open the hotel room door.

Seeing his eyes widen in surprise at her state of undress, she raised an eyebrow.

"Can this wait?" she sighed, "I was about to take a shower."

Hotch looked at her for a second . . . to his credit, his eyes stayed locked onto hers . . . and then shook his head.

"No," he stepped over the threshold, "it can't wait." And with that he pushed her a little further into the room with one hand . . . on her stomach . . . before dropping it to turn and push the door shut.

After he'd set the deadbolt on the door, Hotch turned around to see Emily's arms crossed just under her breasts. His gaze lingered over those perfectly shaped globes.

_God, had he missed them._

"Well," she snapped, "what is it?"

Now that he'd completely intruded . . . literally pushed his way in at one am . . . Emily was making no attempt to hide her irritation at his behavior.

Hotch's attention snapped back to the moment, just as his eyes snapped back to Emily's face. He scrubbed his hand across his mouth.

"JJ's pregnant."

* * *

_A/N 2: Now obviously for canon, that's not exactly a jawdropping cliffhanger development :) but it is for them. It's 'big' news. And it's a good place for a scene break. Obviously there is 'more' but it is also long and messy so, another day. _

_And you might have noticed that after the opening section, I deliberately kept Hotch's POV to a minimum so the whole confusion as his mixed signals, would be more obvious from Emily's side. Also, for the same reason, poor fictional Detective Cooper had to die. Him simply getting shot would not have been sufficient to knock Hotch back on his heels. But again, this isn't canon. Different variation on the case. In part, because my one big complaint with the 'realism' on the show, was that EVERY frigging case, no matter how complicated, or elusive the killer, or how long the local constabulary had been working the case, was resolved like 36 hours after they arrived. Obviously I understand for purposes of an hour long drama, it had to be that way, but it still bugged me. So that is usually why my fictional cases drag out a big longer. _

_Requisite Jack meets Emily scene in each universe. Much more low key here, given the circumstances. Otherwise, a fine line writing Emily as angry and confused and jealous as opposed to just catty and jealous. Because that 'Kate' thing, if Emily was sleeping with Hotch, REALLY would have stuck in her craw. That would have, rightfully so, driven her completely around the bend trying to figure out what hell was going on between the two of them. Which is why I needed to keep that element of canon (Kate Joyner) in this storyline. A plausible scenario for another woman to come between them._

_And I know many people will be throwing things at me for sending Hotch into Emily's hotel room with her topless, and then cutting the scene. Sorry :) Soon, I promise, soon. _

_Thank you everybody for sticking with the story and for all the feedback to date! Knowing you give a crap, is what keeps it going :) _


End file.
